The Blue Boy
by Lexikal
Summary: Spencer Reid is developing what looks like clinical depression... but is he really depressed, or is there something else going on?
1. Chapter 1: Disturbing Behavior

**Title:** The Blue Boy

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on?

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** None. Because I am so behind on watching the show (life is busy!) this is just a general fic, about the stresses of working for the BAU. No particular cases are mentioned. Takes place, however, after Gideon leaves and Rossi joins. Also, while "Revelation" isn't mentioned and there are no spoilers for that episode, the issue of potential drug abuse will come up in this story. This story was inspired by Reid's fear of his own potential mental health as explored in the episode "Sex, Birth, Death" but there are no references to that episode.

* * *

Reid was late again. 4th time this week. Luckily, nothing major had developed overnight, nothing that needed their immediate attention. _Still_. Reid didn't know that. Hotch frowned and glanced at Reid's desk. The young man's go-bag was propped on it, waiting, looking almost lonely. But where the hell was Reid?

Reid was usually very punctual.

Hotch sighed and marched out of the bullpen and into the tiny room the team used as a kitchen. If Reid was here, somehow, and flying under his radar, he'd be near the coffee. Hotch glanced around and sighed. No Reid. He poured a cup of black coffee and gulped it. Grimaced. The coffee tasted burned.

Finally the youngest BAU agent walked into the bullpen's kitchen, rubbing at his eyes like a child. Maybe walk wasn't the right word. He more accurately _stumbled_, steps slow and deliberate, as if exhausted. Hotch watched him carefully, noticing the lowered head, the stringy, almost greasy hair, the bags under his eyes. Their last case had been gruesome, but then again, what case in their line of work wasn't?

"Reid, my office." Hotch kept his voice calm but clipped as he approached the younger man; Aaron Hotchner's version of neutrality. Reid glanced up with dull, hazel eyes and blinked. Nodded dully. Followed Hotch to his office without comment.

Hotch opened the door for the younger agent and ushered him inside. He sat and stared at Reid, appraising him, before finally suggesting the younger man take a seat. Reid slumped into the chair, tented his fingers. His eyes were heavy lidded.

"What's going on with you?" Hotch asked sternly, never one to mince words. Reid shrugged like a petulant teenager, but his expression was just... tired. Dull. Finally he glanced back at his boss.

"You've been late 4 times this week." Hotch remarked slightly less sternly, a little more softly. Reid nodded, but whether he was agreeing or just nodding to tell Hotch he'd heard him was anyone's guess.

"I... I haven't been sleeping that well." Reid finally said softly, so softly Hotch almost missed the words. Hotch nodded in understanding. He wasn't surprised and had guessed as much; he'd had his share of sleepless nights skulking around inside the minds of serial killers, too. He could only imagine the impact of all that horrific skulking combined with an eidetic memory, a memory that would and could not let its master forget... _ever_.

But something about Reid, his demeanour... Hotch couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the tardiness, the sloppy appearance, Reid's eyes... it seemed like more than just insomnia. Reid was pale, but he was often pale. In fact, his pallor was something of a joke amongst the other BAU members. There were dark circles under his eyes, but again, that was nothing new for Reid, either. Reid often looked sickly even when he was fine and Hotch had come to get used to it, used to their pale, introverted little genius spouting off random esoteric facts and statistics, minutiae. But... _something_ was off.

Unfortunately Reid was being less than forthcoming about what might be "off". In fact, Reid, usually one to chatter nervously, especially when cornered or questioned about anything even remotely personal, seemed like a discarded puppet in the chair, limp and mute. Hotch was momentarily reminded of poetry, of T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Men" and pushed that thought out of his head, but the chill had already trailed its way down his spine.

"I can't have your personal problems interfering with your work." Hotch said coolly when Reid failed to say anything else. In reality, Hotch was frustrated. Maybe even a little worried, but really, all he had was a rather unkempt looking Reid and 4 late days to base his worry on. Reid nodded slightly to let Hotch know he'd heard him, his eyes lacking their usual spark.

"They won't." Reid finally proffered when the silence in the room morphed from uneasy to grating.

"Good. Then I can expect you to be here on time from now on." Hotch remarked simply, brusquely. It was not a question but Reid nodded anyway and stood. Hotch nodded tacitly, there was no more need for words, and Reid left the office. He shut the door so softly that Hotch could barely hear the click and for some reason Aaron Hotchner was reminded of a whipped dog. But he hadn't been any harder on Reid than he was on the rest of the team at any other given moment.

* * *

Houston, 2 weeks later...

"Reid? You were saying?" Derek Morgan stared across the table at the younger man, the agent he almost thought of as a kid brother. Morgan lifted his eyebrows. Reid had been in the middle of developing a profile, explaining why he thought their UNSUB was abducting and killing only children with severe learning disabilities and severely low IQ scores, without leaving any evidence of sexual misconduct or torture.

Based on what Reid had been saying, formulating, their UNSUB was highly intelligent, organized and focused, probably with a history of working in the medical field or at least someone with some medical training like a retired nurse or paramedic, but lacking the sadism or sexual proclivities usually seen in prepubescent child murder cases.

Reid had stopped speaking in midsentence, eyes distant and unfocused. The rest of the team looked at him, exchanging looks when he failed to finish his sentence. The local police in the room that the team had been delivering the initial profile for looked at each other uncomfortably.

Until Morgan had broken the silence by prompting Reid.

"It doesn't matter Morgan. I don't know. I may be wrong," Reid got up and paced over to the window of the local police station's one and only conference room and stared out at the parking lot. It was a beautiful, sunny day and Reid shut his eyes, felt the heat of the sun against his skin and kept his back to his team and the local PD. Inside he felt miserable. Dead. The sun's heat and the apparent beauty of the day outside seemed like a mockery of his inner reality. He knew he felt depressed. His thoughts had slowed to a crawl; he didn't care, couldn't feel the strength or will to care; about his job, these kids. Nothing. What did any of it matter? Had it ever mattered?

He hadn't written his mother in weeks, and even though he felt slightly guilty about that, on an entirely other level he couldn't bring himself to care about her anymore, either.

"I probably _am_ wrong." Reid said a bit louder, and glanced back over at his team. They were all watching him. Profiling him, no doubt. Oh well. Usually five sets of eyes trained on him, dissecting his psyche with looks, would've made him twitchy, but now he didn't care. Let them look. The cops were looking back and forth, too, but Reid knew they didn't have the ability to profile him. That thought might have made him smile under other circumstances.

Rossi and Hotch exchanged worried looks and Hotch nodded, fully aware of the police in the room. Hotch stood and began talking, not at Reid, exactly, but about the case, about his own thoughts regarding the UNSUB. Reid watched his superior for a moment and walked back over to the conference table, sat back down. He grabbed a Styrofoam cup from a stack of the things the local police had left on the table with a few pitchers of water and poured a cup, only half listening to Hotch. He took a few quick gulps, but the water tasted stale and dead, too, as if it was impossibly lacking most of its oxygen...anaemic water. That was a new one.

Hotch's voice and breakdown of the UNSUB's psychopathology seemed about as interesting as watching paint dry.

"...since he's taken children who have all been given the WISC and scored at 70 or below, we may also have to consider that he works at the schools or is somehow involved in the testing process. Considering his competence in medicine and the precision with which these victims were drugged and then exsanguinated, we are almost certainly, as Dr. Reid earlier suggested, looking at someone with training in child psychology and also medical training."

"Like a psychiatrist or perhaps a paediatrician." Morgan continued gruffly.

"You said... he ex...sanguinates them?" One of the cops asked confusedly in a low drawl.

Reid grimaced and shut his eyes, and reopened them. This case was doomed if these hicks were their "help".

"Drains them of their blood supply," Reid informed sharply, like a teacher reprimanding a disobedient student. The room was spinning and he felt suddenly sick.

"Wouldn't, then," Another police officer asked, having taken a dislike to Reid's tone of voice and obviously trying to back his colleague, "it make more sense for this..._UNSUB_... to be a mortician or something? An Embalmer? Since he's draining them?"

"Exsanguination is a remarkably easy process," Reid informed flatly, staring at the police officer. "In the sense we are using the term, unlike the slaughter of animals, ensanguination is very similar to embalming, except instead of using an artificial pump as in embalming, these children's own hearts serve as the pump. Our UNSUB cuts a 1 to 2 inch incision above the right clavicle of the victims, and catheterizes the right carotid artery and right jugular vein..."

The police officer was looking a little pale as the implications of Reid's speech began to sink in. The rest of Reid's team had fallen back and were watching their youngest warily. This wasn't pedantic Reid or socially-awkward Reid. Reid was trying to disturb the young police officer in front of him, and he was succeeding.

"They're awake but drugged, paralyzed. Succinylcholine ensures that these kids, however, are fully aware of what's happening to them for the entire process... until they lose consciousness from hypovolemia, of course."

"Fully aware?" The first cop, the one who hadn't known the meaning of "exsanguinate", inquired sceptically. "Ya'll said these are children that are mentally retarded?"

"They know they are in pain, that they can't move and that they're dying. That's aware enough, I'd say." Reid's words suggested anger but the actual tone of his voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"Anyway," Hotch interrupted, handing around stapled papers with their first impressions about the UNSUB and the case.

"Here is some more information we'd appreciate you looking over. Because of this killer's level of planning and organization, as well as knowledge of IQ tests and medical competence, we're estimating he has superior intellect. In fact, he may be more organized than we realize and may be trying to cover his tracks by appearing less intelligent than he really is. This killer is almost certainly aware that we are here, that he is being profiled, and that thrills him and makes him feel important, but he does not want to be caught. He is a narcissist who revels in his own intelligence and when we find him we will undoubtedly find newspaper clippings or other articles relating to this case in his possession, but other than that, he is not keeping trophies specific to each victim."

"He probably feels that the children he kills are innately defective. We do not, at this time, believe he is what some have termed an 'angel of death'- he is not killing them because he feels sorry for them, but rather, because they do not meet his _standards_. They are an affront to his ideas of evolution and..." Hotch trailed. Reid was staring at the table, drawing invisible circles on the formica surface with his right pointer finger. Bored. Hotch redirected his attention to the rest of the room again.

"If he is a retired doctor that would give him the time and space he needs to carry out these murders without being immediately detected. His age might also make him seem less threatening to the general public, in the sense that elderly people are generally considered less of a threat than younger adults. We're estimating he is probably in his mid 60s, and he may have worked as a psychiatrist in his younger years. His use of Succinylcholine to paralyze his victims may indicate that he was involved in the delivery of electroshock sessions, as this drug was one of the first used to immobilize patients during ECT treatments."

Hotch stopped. The rest of the team was looking at him encouragingly. Reid muttered: "Yeah, before that, they just tied them down and let their arms break like twigs." Reid said it quietly but the room was charged with nervous tension again. Hotch sighed.

"Okay, thank you for your time. If you have any questions, please feel free to get in touch either with me or SSA Rossi here..." The police were standing, stretching, muttering. They began to file out of the room. When the last one had left and the door clicked shut, Hotch approached Reid, eyes narrowed and dark.

"What the hell was that about?" Hotch snapped angrily.

"What?" Reid asked flatly, looking up. His vision was blurring. He didn't have the energy for Hotch's little hissy fit.

"That little side show you just put on for the Houston PD?"

"You mean, _explaining_..."

Aaron Hotchner felt ready to snap. Reid still looked bored. Tired.

"Your behaviour reflects on the entire team." Hotch said sternly.

The rest of the team was still in the room, watching quietly, except for Rossi who had left with the local police. Damage control.

"That's where you're wrong," Reid informed bitterly, staring Hotch in the eyes. "_My_ behaviour reflects on _me_. My ability to _profile_ is what reflects on the team, and my profile was _accurate_." Reid exhaled then, and looked even more tired, and Hotch noticed, to his alarm, that the circles under his eyes, always dark, looked almost black.

Hotch glanced over at Morgan and Prentiss and JJ. "Can you give us a minute?" He asked them softly. He didn't have to repeat himself.

And then it was only Hotch and Reid and the too-bright late afternoon sunlight.

"Reid, this behaviour is unacceptable."

Spencer Reid laughed weakly and shook his head back and forth as if Hotch was being ridiculous.

"Doing my job is unacceptable?" Reid snapped back at Hotch, tone full of venom. Hotch scowled and stared at the younger man, mind sifting through possibilities. What the hell was going on here?

"This isn't about your ability to profile; it's about your behaviour. How you're interacting with others."

"Gee, I'm sorry _Hotch_... I didn't realize I was in Montessori school."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Hotch replied curtly. "You're not acting like yourself."

"You're assuming you even knew me to begin with," Reid shot back, eyes flashing angrily, before grabbing his leather book bag from its spot on the table. "Which you obviously didn't, or we wouldn't be having this inane conversation now."

"Reid." Hotch's voice was a low warning growl.

"Look, I'm getting back to this case," Reid informed, fiddling with the watch encircling the cuff of his sweater. "You can sit here and think about what happened to my carefree youth if you want, but I am going to get back to..." Reid stalked away from his boss, opened the door, "work."

He grabbed for the doorknob. Missed. Cursed. Second time he got it and whipped the door open so hard it smacked into the wall and left a dent in the wall.

Hotch sighed and stared at the back of the door for a moment as it slowly swung closed again, eyebrows furrowed.

* * *

Virginia, 3 weeks later...

"Hey kid, you coming?"

The case was finally over. They'd caught their UNSUB in Texas and were now back. The guy was probably going to be executed, but that was out of their hands. The paperwork was done. The weekend loomed. The team had a night planned out. Chinese. They'd eat with chopsticks and chat about crap that Reid found boring at the best of times and laugh together while he struggled with small, awkward grins and ate with a fork like a three year old... _while the rest of them used chopsticks. _That's how it had always been, but tonight he didn't even have the energy for the damn charade. The thought of it made Spencer Reid want to scream with frustration. Fucking chopsticks.

"Reid," Morgan asked again when the younger man failed to respond. "You coming?"

"I don't think so, Morgan." Reid exhaled tiredly, fiddling with a pen on his desk. A magic trick. Stick a pen through a piece of paper and pull it out without ripping the paper. Or make it look like that.

"Reid, we caught our bad guy. Come on..."

"I said _no_, Morgan." Reid's voice was sharp, annoyed. Irritated. Garcia was standing near him, dressed in some hideously garish house dress and sparkly makeup.

"I'm not good with the chopsticks either," Garcia offered gently, and extended a hand towards Reid.

"Garcia, _please_... just go. You guys have fun. I just...I'm tired and sort of want to be alone." If they didn't stop bothering him, he was going to...

As he said these words he realized he didn't want to be alone. He _needed_ to be alone. A restless energy was bubbling in his chest, like a developing panic attack. Reid let the pen drop and stood up, pulled his jacket on and grabbed his leather satchel.

"I- I am going home. Just feeling a bit under the weather. You guys have a good time though."

"You sure you're okay?" Morgan called after him.

"Probably just the rhinovirus or something..." Reid called back, heading for the elevator.

He left before they could try to dissuade him.

* * *

It took Spencer Reid 45 minutes to get home, but at last he was home. His couch had never looked more comfortable.

He dropped the keys onto a small table near the door and locked the dead bolt and chain, before wriggling out of his leather shoes. He didn't bother to bend down and untie them. Too much work. His body ached and throbbed, the muscles burning and tight. Reid walked to the bathroom and urinated, washed his hands, splashed cold water on his face. His hair needed to be washed and he needed a shave, but he felt exhausted. Even a quick shower, just long enough to shave and shampoo and brush his teeth seemed like too much of an effort. Reid sighed tiredly. He wanted to sleep. He _needed_ to sleep.

Maybe he wasn't depressed. Maybe he was sick, physically sick. Some sort of late summer bug.

Reid stared back at his reflection, at the slightly sunken eyes, the dark circles underneath. The greasy, stringy hair. Swearing tiredly he shut the bathroom door and began to undress. He flicked the regular light off and turned the red heat light on and his face looked strange, like a silk-screened image, all the minute details and fine lines erased. Like being in a dark room. Reid grabbed a tube of toothpaste, his tooth brush and his electric razor and proceeded to the shower.

The water felt nice, admittedly; warm and pelting, massaging away the aches and strain of the last week. Reid let his eyes close and rubbed shampoo through his hair once, then rinsed. Repeated. Just in case. Next he quickly splashed on body wash and scrubbed at himself, but the water was tiring, lulling him to sleep. He brushed his teeth quickly, spitting out white foam that looked pink under the heat light and stepped back out of the shower, dripping.

He shaved dazedly, until a jolt of pain speared him through the head and then he dropped the shaver. Sank to the bottom of the tub, hands cradling his head, moaning.

Something like a moan mixed with a squeal fell out of his mouth. God. The pain! His head was going to explode! Before he could take another breath, he was vomiting all over the bottom of the porcelain tub.

Distantly he was glad he was naked and puking in the shower. Would save on clean up time later.

He lay, gasping, on the bottom of the tub as the water pelted him. The vomit had long since been washed down the drain, but he felt drained, unable to move. The warmth of the water was lulling him to sleep. He didn't think he would ever move.

Distantly he heard a knock on his door. Morgan's voice calling.

"Reid, I know you're home, kid! Brought you some hot and sour soup for your rhinovirus!" Morgan hollered through the door.

Reid groaned and tried to lift himself off the bottom of the tub, but it was hard. Eventually he managed to sit up, and then, using the side of the tub for support, he pulled himself the whole way up.

He stepped out of the shower without bothering to turn it off and grabbed a towel off the rack. Wrapped it around his waist. Morgan wouldn't leave, not if he'd come all the way here with damned hot and sour soup.

Morgan unlocked the dead bolt, pulled the chain off and opened the door.

"Jesus, kid, I didn't know you were in the shower. I've been calling for over an hour."

"Fell 'sleep." Reid explained tiredly and staggered back to the bathroom. Sighing, he turned the water off, picked the shaver off the tub's floor, closed the door, and quickly towel-dried off. He pulled his khakis and shirt back on, but left it unbuttoned, and stumbled back out into the living room.

Morgan was sitting on his sofa. The hot and sour soup was in a Styrofoam container in a plastic bag on his coffee table.

"Reid, kid, you look like death warmed over. Don't you think it's time you saw a doctor?"

"It's..." Reid glanced at the wall on his clock. Squinted. Realized, slightly stunned, that his brain wasn't processing the time properly. He blinked hard, shook his head. Weird.

"It's 12:13 in the morning," Morgan said slowly, looking at the clock and then back at Reid. "What, you can't see the clock anymore? What's going on with you?"

"Sick." Reid slurred, slumping on the sofa, head falling against Morgan's shoulder. "Head hurts."

"I'll bet," Morgan said, sitting up a bit, grasping the younger man by the shoulders. He looked at Reid. Really looked at Reid. Reid was swaying slightly, pupils huge, eyes unfocused. His face was so pale, it was almost translucent.

"You ever have a head ache this bad before, kid?" Morgan asked sternly after a moment. Reid winced and shook his head but then said: "Migraines, sometimes."

"You think this is a migraine?"

Reid shrugged the tiniest bit. He seemed ready to fall asleep at any second.

"Any other symptoms. You get sick?"

"Threw up," Reid slurred dully, eyes fluttering shut. Morgan didn't like this. Reid wasn't a complainer, and even when he was really sick he didn't act this... disoriented. The only time Morgan had ever heard of Reid being this disoriented and sloppy with his speech was after the kid had contracted anthrax. Possibly when he was learning to talk as a baby, too.

"Reid, c'mon kid." Morgan had made his decision, was off the sofa, trying to pull the younger man into standing up. Reid shut his eyes and flopped his head back, moaning, obviously annoyed.

"I just need to _sleep_, Morgan." Reid whined, sounding slightly more alert. "I've just got a bug, that's all."

"You're sure?" Morgan asked. He wanted to believe that, and it made sense. Reid would've told him if something else had happened. If he had hit his head or something.

"Yeah, just a bug. You can go. Thanks for the soup." Already Reid was drifting off, eyes fluttering shut.

"Not going to change into pajamas then, I guess," Morgan remarked sardonically. He'd seen Reid's pajamas before, on cases, when they shared motel rooms. Reid wore two piece cotton things which buttoned up the front; they looked like they'd been kept in time capsules since the 1950s.

"_Tomorrow_," Reid murmured tiredly.

"Yeah, see, the point of pajamas is you usually wear them to _bed_..." Morgan responded softly. But Reid was already asleep. Sighing, Derek Morgan picked the hot and sour soup off Reid's coffee table and put it in the fridge. Then he went into Reid's bedroom and came back with a throw that was balled up at the end of the bed. To his amusement, the throw had some chemical formula printed on it on white. Black background. Morgan stared at for a moment and chuckled.

Under the diagram of the molecule was the chemical formula: C8H10N4O2... _caffeine_. Reid owned a caffeine throw. Wow. Just when he'd thought the height of geekiness were the sweater vests and mismatched socks.

Carefully he covered the younger man with the throw, not worried about waking him. He doubted an air raid siren could wake Spencer Reid right now.

"Good night, Kid," Morgan said softly, adjusting Reid's tall, lanky form on the sofa to the best of his ability.

* * *

End of chapter one, hope you guys liked it. Please review, let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2: We All Fall Down

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Two)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on?

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Author's Note:** We are now into chapter two...

* * *

Derek Morgan awoke slowly, to the sound of retching. He yawned and glanced over at Reid's digital bedside clock. 6:30 am on a Saturday morning and the kid was coughing up a lung. Great.

Morgan swung his feet over the side of the bed and stumbled towards the bathroom. Reid was crouched in front of the toilet, face sallow, working his tongue around the inside of his mouth. He made a few last-ditch spit attempts. He was also- Morgan noticed warily- naked except for his briefs.

"Reid...uh...is there a reason you've stripped to your undies, man?"

Reid glanced up and narrowed his eyes. "Morgan? What the hell are you still doing here? I thought you went home!" The vehemence in his voice was more than a little unnerving.

"Kid... this isn't the flu, is it? What's going on with you?"

"I SAID, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!"

Morgan stepped back, hands outstretched. "Okay, kid, just relax, okay? It's me. _Morgan_."

Reid's eyes were crazily dilated and he kept blinking strangely, as if he was trying to clear his vision. He hadn't even acted this messed up on dilaudid. For some reason Derek Morgan couldn't help but have flashbacks to his childhood- the final scenes of "Old Yeller".

"I know who you are! Why are you still here? I need to _rest_!"

"No physics magic today, I guess, then... huh?"

Reid blinked at Morgan, narrowing his eyes into suspicious slits. "_What_?"

"Reid, I can't just leave you. I am worried about you. You haven't been acting yourself..."

Reid turned and puked again, gagging, dry-heaving. Morgan winced in sympathy. Just the sound alone was painful to listen to.

"My damned HEAD won't stop BEATING!" Reid snarled and tried to get up, but apparently Reid's head wasn't just beating but also spinning because he fell on his ass. He tried a second time, stumbled to his feet, hands grasping towards the walls for support.

"What the hell has happened to gravity?" Reid commented dully as he stumbled back into the living room. He grabbed the throw from the sofa and draped it over his shoulders like a cape.

"Up is down and down is up, and left is right..." Babbling now.

"_Reid_." Morgan interrupted, his concern for the younger man spiking by the minute. "C'mon Reid. Somewhere in that big brain of yours, you know we should probably see a doctor. Like... yesterday." He didn't have to touch Reid to tell he was spiking fever. Reid's face was dripping sweat; his hair was limp with perspiration.

"I _am_ a doctor, Morgan," Reid announced unnecessarily and slumped back onto his sofa. He picked up his remote control and flicked the television on. Channel surfed until he found the Discovery Channel. Derek Morgan grinned, despite himself. Some things never changed.

"I meant a _medical _doctor," Morgan sighed, sitting next to Reid.

"Why? So I can writhe in a waiting room for 2 hours only to be told to take a few extra strength Tylenol, drink plenty of fluids and maybe pop some dimenhydrinate?"

"Why... you have any?"

"Yeah, some Dramamine... In the bathroom cabinet. And some extra strength Advil. Three of each please," Reid slurred, eyes drifting back to the Discovery Channel. _Secrets of King Tut's Tomb_.

Morgan sighed, exasperated, and went into the bathroom, got the pills, went into the kitchen and pulled out a cup.

"You know if you weren't so damn cute, I wouldn't be doing this, Kid," Morgan muttered under his breath as he placed the drinking glass down on the Formica kitchen counter.

"You want water or milk to take these with?" Morgan called from the kitchen.

"My blood sugar is probably low, and milk will do a better job at neutralizing stomach acid in case I do feel like..."

"Milk it is, Morgan finished, and poured the younger man a cup. He returned, handed the pills to Reid and watched as his friend gulped them down.

"Plus lye is added to the city's water, Lye has a P.H. factor of 14, but because of the high acid content of most tap water, and even with the lye..."

"Reid?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you freak out in the bathroom a few minutes ago?"

"Tired. Up all night puking. Head hurts. Pick one."

"I've never seen you like that, man. I mean..._ never_. You're sure you're alright."

Reid blinked that funny little blink again, almost like a nervous tic. "Yeah, Morgan... why wouldn't I be?"

* * *

Morgan finally convinced Reid to change into pajamas and then sat in Reid's armchair, watching the Discovery Channel until he fell asleep. When he woke up, Reid himself was asleep, his face looking innocent, almost childlike, in his sleep.

And then Morgan realized why he had woken in the first place. His cell phone was vibrating. He pulled it out of his pocket, unfolded it and got out of the arm chair.

"Yeah?" He whispered into the cell, and walked into the kitchen.

"How's our boy doing?" Garcia asked concernedly. "You took him the soup last night?"

"Actually, Princess, I'm still here..."

"You are? Why?" Garcia's voice sounded slightly alarmed. "What happened?"

"Reid's not acting like... well... like _Reid_. I'm worried about him, Pen."

"Next you're going to tell me he's trying to give you a fragrant pink flower-"

Morgan shook his head. Maybe he was the one going nuts.

"Garcia?" He asked, totally confused.

"Invasion of the Body Snatchers? 1978 version? The Pod People? They spread the spores around by giving normal human beings _fragrant pink flowers_... c'mon, tell me you don't remember that movie, that dog with the homeless dude's head attached to it..."

"Garcia, I'm serious. He's acting... strange. Screamed at me to get out of his house this morning."

There was a prolonged silence on the phone, on Garcia's end.

"You're right, that doesn't sound like our Reid."

"I'm thinking about calling Hotch."

"Hotch? Why Hotch?" Garcia asked. Morgan could hear her typing in the background, possibly looking up diagnoses for Reid's symptoms, at least the ones she knew of, had seen. Screaming. Pallor. Headaches. Irritability.

"Because I think there is something medically wrong with him, and I think he... _respects_ Hotch the most. I'm just his friend. Hotch is his boss."

"It's the weekend, sweet-cheeks. I don't know if Hotch can do much when our boy is off-duty, no matter how much Reid_ respects_ him."

"I don't, either, but I can try. Because of the situation with his mother," Morgan lowered his voice again, "Hotch is also listed as his next of kin..."

"Ahhhh, I see. Reid doesn't want to see a doctor, you want him to; you think if Hotch sees him he'll _make _him go... smart. Kind of manipulative and underhanded, too, but smart..."

"Pen, I'm worried about him. You didn't see him last night. Or this morning, for that matter-"

And suddenly Morgan sputtered and exhaled, like he'd been suddenly winded. His heart felt like it had been running a race and had been suddenly slammed up against a brick wall.

Spencer Reid was standing right in front of him, staring him in the eyes. He hadn't noticed because he'd been staring at the ceiling as he talked to Garcia.

Reid's eyes were blazing with anger.

"Garcia... I have to go..."

"Morgan?"

"Call you later," Morgan snapped back, and disconnected the call.

"Reid? What's the matter?"

"I told you to get out of my house earlier. You wouldn't listen. So now I am telling you _again_." Reid's eyes were hard, like coal. He swallowed hard, as if swallowing something bitter.

"Kid, I just think-"

"GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!" He was panting now. Morgan had never even seen Reid go off like this, not even on an UnSub.

Morgan nodded, alarmed. Blinked hard.

"Okay, kid. Whatever you want. I'm going."

"And stay gone! I can't help if you gossip about me when I am not around, but I'll be damned if I let you tarnish my reputation in my own house!"

"Reid-" Morgan said carefully, trying to gauge the younger man's stability. "Nobody is gossiping about you..."

"I _heard_ you, Morgan," Reid spat out angrily, his signature frustrated look fully in place now. Eyebrows furrowing, the dismissive shake of the head. Morgan nodded. There would be no reasoning with Reid in this state of mind.

"I'll see you on Monday, Reid," Morgan said softly, stepping into his shoes, pulling on his jacket. Reid waited until he was halfway through the door to tell him to go to Hell. And then he rushed to the door and bolted it shut, slid the chain across. He blinked again, hard, as if trying to dislodge some strange dream from his mind.

Reid sat back down on his couch and pulled his throw tighter around himself, shivering slightly. Good thing he'd gotten rid of that guy.

He should have never let that delivery guy inside. Could've been _anyone_.

* * *

Reid was late yet again. Aaron Hotchner stared at his desk clock and sighed. He'd heard from Morgan earlier that morning about Reid's behaviour over the weekend and had thanked his agent, but until he actually saw Reid, he couldn't do much. He'd tried Reid's home phone three times, but Reid was only 15 minutes late. Probably still commuting. And Reid wasn't answering his cell.

Hotch had his door wide open, so that he could see anyone who entered or existed the bullpen. Suddenly he spotted Reid. Reid was limping slightly, dragging his left foot as if he'd sprained it. Besides the obvious limp, Reid was even paler than he'd been the week before, his lips dry and cracked, his hair tangled and knotty. He looked like he's lost weight, too.

Hotch sighed and slid off his chair, walked out into the bullpen. He heard Morgan say hello to Reid, but apparently Reid wasn't in the talkative mood because he continued to limp past his colleague without so much as a glance. Finally he reached his desk and slumped into it; let his bag drop to the floor. Hotch furrowed his brows and studied the younger man for a moment, trying to decide how best to address him. Given Morgan's report, it'd be best to use kid gloves with the younger agent... at least until they knew what was going on. Finally Hotch sighed and just approached Reid's desk. Whatever was going to happen... would happen.

"Reid, can I see you in my office, please?" Hotch tried to keep his voice light. Soft. Reid's previous behaviour had been odd, but today was... he didn't want to do or say anything that would startle or threaten Spencer Reid in this state. Reid gazed up at his boss and squinted, as if trying to see him clearly. He blinked a few times.

"_Hotch_?" He squeaked out.

"Yes, Spencer. I need to talk to you. Come on," Hotch pointed toward his office, coaxing Reid out of his chair. Reid jerked his head in what could almost be called a nod and stumbled to his feet. He followed Hotch, still dragging his left foot awkwardly.

_Okay, just talk to him. Tone? Don't think of it. Pretend he's Jack. Misbehaving, but still, just a child..._

"Please sit down, Reid," Hotch said simply, and sat down behind his own desk again. He left his door open. _Just in case..._

Reid slumped down, and blinked hard. He was breathing through his mouth, obviously in pain.

"You're late again, Spencer. I thought we agreed that you were going to be on time from now on?" Hotch said, slightly more sharply than he had intended. In reality, he didn't really care that Reid was late. He wanted to see how Reid would react to the comment.

"_Late_?" Reid gazed at the clock on Aaron Hotchner's desk and squinted, as if confused. "I...I left at 7."

"Are you sure?" Hotch asked mildly, golden-brown eyes focused like lasers on his agent. Reid looked ready to fall off the chair. What the hell was going on here?

"It_ said_ seven." Reid muttered with dazed, unseeing eyes, and reached forward. Grabbed Hotch's clock and lifted it off the desk. Studied the device intently, as if he'd never seen a clock before. Hotch exhaled worriedly.

"Spencer, _what_ said seven?"

"_Sandman_... did you know you can train your subconscious mind to wake you up whenever you _want_?" Reid lifted his sweaty head and smiled, showing all his teeth. "An amazing phenomenon... did you _know_ that?"

"Yes, Spencer, you've mentioned this one or two times before," Hotch said tonelessly. Reid had always been slender, even skinny... but now his face looked gaunt, the cheekbones and eyes sunken.

"Spencer, I want you to see a doctor. I don't think you're fit for duty right now," Hotch said carefully, his eyes never leaving Reid. Reid's face screwed up. His mouth opened and shut a few times.

"What? Why? Because I was _late_?" Reid barked, and lifted himself off the chair. "I left at seven!"

"Spencer, until you see a doctor, I can't clear you for..."

"I _am_ a doctor! _Three _doctorates!" Reid howled, backing away from Hotch. "He was talking to you, wasn't he?"

"Who? _Morgan_?" Hotch asked, narrowing his eyes. Morgan's account of Reid's behaviour had been a bit extreme, but now Hotch knew that, if anything, Morgan had understated events. Either that or Reid had deteriorated very quickly in less than 48 hours.

"Who else?" Reid snapped through gritted teeth, his eyes blazing with... well... the closest thing to hatred Aaron Hotchner had ever seen in the young man.

"Reid, this isn't negotiable," Hotch snapped, anger masking his growing concern. "I can take you myself..."

He didn't have time to finish his sentence, though. Reid's eyes, which seconds before had held so much contempt and hatred went dull and blank. His mouth went slack and fell open. Hotch stared at Reid in alarm and quickly slipped out from behind his desk. Reid's eyes rolled back and disappeared, replaced by white. Reid was convulsing.

Hotch eased him to the floor gently and firmly held him, held his arms firmly, but not _too_ firmly. Tried to remember what he'd learned about seizures. Reid was still flopping.

_Support the head. Remove tight clothing from around the neck. Don't insert anything into the mouth... this may break the teeth or cause other injuries. Do not restrain the patient excessively, this may increase aggression. The patient will not swallow his tongue...Seizures only last a few minutes on average. The patient may or may not be able to hear you._

"Help!" Hotch barked loudly, more calmly than he felt, and within seconds Morgan was there. Then Prentiss.

"Morgan, get his legs. Somebody... _phone an ambulance _"

Reid had already bitten into his tongue and was coughing on the blood, bright red gushing out of his open mouth and spilling over his face, over the collar of his unbuttoned shirt. Combined with the saliva, which was foaming, and the extreme pallor of his face... he looked like he was dying.

Hotch continued to hold Reid, held his head and upper body, staring hard at Morgan when the other man glanced up.

"_Reid_?" Hotch said loudly, glancing down at the convulsing agent. "Spencer?"

Prentiss reappeared, breathing hard. "Ambulance is coming," she breathed. Garcia arrived then, and Hotch heard her exhale a sharp gasp, a moan.

Reid's shaking stopped as suddenly as it started. His eyes fluttered and opened, hazy. He looked up at his boss, obviously disoriented.

"_Hotch_?"

Aaron Hotchner smiled weakly and nodded. "Yes, Reid, it's me. Just lie still,"

But Reid was trying to sit up. "W-what happened?"

"Reid, lie back down. The ambulance is coming." Hotch stated sharply. Reid was obviously exhausted. He nodded and his eyes fluttered shut again. Hotch and Morgan gently lowered him back to the floor.

_Where were the damn medics?_

_

* * *

_Okay, end of chapter 2, please review. I may not be able to write and update with chapter 3 as easily as I'd like as the rest of the week is looking a bit busy... but I will... _eventually_... for those of you reading "This is my last Resort", I haven't forgotten about that, either...


	3. Chapter 3: Diagnosis

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Three)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on?

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Author's Note:** We are now into chapter three... as a recap, Reid has just had a seizure in Hotch's office after a few weeks of rather strange behaviour (strange for Reid, that is). Enjoy...

Also, I might be gone from the net for a while or busy, so I am trying to write and update while I can, but don't worry, I won't abandon this story. To get myself in the mood for this story (which is about to get angsty) I am watching a lot of Reid vids on youtube set to sad songs. Hey, whatever works, right?

_**Thank you so much to all the readers who have commented on this story...I am sorry if I can't get back to everyone individually. I really appreciate all the kind words! **_

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate, however, I am not a medical professional (hell, I'm also not a criminal profiler but I still write CM fan fiction). I have tried to write this story (and will continue to try to write it) as medically accurate as possible, however, please keep in mind that I am _not_ a doctor. This is fan fiction, so please don't let a mistake or four ruin the story for you. Thanks in advance for your understanding.

* * *

_**He conquers who endures. – Persius**_

"Over_ here_!" Hotch barked when he saw the paramedics. They had sure taken their sweet time. There were four of them, two rolling a stretcher, one carrying a small bag of medical supplies, the last walking slightly behind the first three tiredly. The first, the one in the lead, bent down at Reid's side.

"_Sir_? Can you hear me?" The paramedic spoke slowly, loudly. Reid mumbled something unintelligible.

"You said he had a _seizure_?" Another of the paramedics asked, looking over at Hotch. Hotch nodded stiffly, mouth set in a grim, bloodless line.

"Any history of epilepsy?"

"No," Hotch ground out. Reid's face was still covered in blood. Aaron Hotchner knew the blood wasn't a big deal- that it was just a sign of whatever was ultimately wrong with Reid- but he wished one of them would at least wipe it off his face...

"Did anyone try to restrain him during the episode?" the first paramedic asked, gently clutching Reid's wrist with his gloved hands and feeling for his pulse.

"I held his head. But no, none of us _restrained_ him..."

"Nobody held him down?" The first paramedic barked incredulously, shining a small flashlight into Reid's eyes. Reid moaned and tried to close his eyes, tried to wriggle away from the invading, painful light and the foreign, latex hands.

Hotch exchanged a glance with Morgan.

"We held him gently, so he wouldn't hurt himself, _but_..."

"We're going to need the backboard," the first paramedic barked and the medic that had trailed behind the first three ducked out of view, nodding. Was back quickly with a plastic orange backboard and a neck brace.

They shifted Reid onto it gently, securing the neck brace.

"_Off me_..." Reid muttered and his eyes fluttered. "_Hottttt_?..."

"Reid, I'm here," Hotch said, reaching out to touch Reid's hand. It felt cool, clammy. One of the paramedics was talking in a clipped tone into a walkie-talkie, another had attached an oximeter to one of Reid's fingers.

"Whaasss happppen'?" Reid slurred and opened his eyes again. He looked around the room, confused.

"You had a seizure, kid, but you'll be okay..." Morgan said gently.

"Excuse us, could you give us some room, please?" the first paramedic snapped and Morgan scowled, but stepped back.

"Okay, Mr. Reid, you're going to feel some slight pressure around your wrist now," the first paramedic said loudly, slowly, as if Reid were hard of hearing. His name tag read "Jim". He tied a rubber tourniquet around Reid's thin wrist and swatted the surface of the young genius's hand until a vein bulged. He then tore open an alcohol swab, swabbed the bulging vein. Waited, watching carefully as the vein bulged a bit larger.

"He's _really_ dehydrated..." the paramedic told his partner, and sighed.

"Just a little poke now, Mr. Reid..."

"His name is _Spencer_," Hotch said flatly. The paramedic nodded sharply, as if bothered, as if the name didn't matter. Which, ultimately, Hotch guessed, it probably didn't. _Still_.

The medic pulled an IV needle out of its plastic casing and slid it gently into Reid's vein, ignoring the young man's low moan. Hotch watched, saw a burst of red flash into the IV tubing. The catheter was pushed into the vein and the needle was withdrawn. The medic released the rubber tourniquet, one finger firmly pressing on the catheter in Reid's hand, holding out his gloved hand for something. His partner handed him a tube of what looked like antibiotic ointment. The man quickly dabbed some on the puncture, then pressed a band-aid over the site. He finally taped the IV in place and gently positioned the IV bag near Reid's feet, the tubing snaking over Reid's partially exposed chest.

The IV was running quickly; it was "full open", if Hotch remembered the terminology correctly. This hadn't been the first time Aaron Hotchner had seen paramedics work on his youngest agent. The second medic watched the flow for a minute or so and adjusted the IV until the flow was much slower, a steady _drip, drip, drip..._

_So far, standard procedure. _

Hotch watched dully as Reid was then tied onto the backboard, and then lifted onto the gurney.

"_Hottttt_..." Reid moaned, eyes darting wildly from Morgan to Hotch and between the new, strange faces. Back again. "H-Hotch!"

"Spencer, it's _okay_." Hotch said sternly, hoping his tone would calm Reid. Reid looked like he was about to panic.

The medics were already wheeling the gurney away. Garcia stood on the stairs, staring without blinking, her eyes bright with tears.

Hotch walked behind the paramedics, hammered on the elevator button.

"Sir, you can meet us at the hospital," The paramedic named Jim- the alpha-male apparently- informed Hotch sternly.

"I'm his next of kin," Hotch snapped, staring hard at the paramedic.

"And his situation_ isn't _critical. You can meet us at the hospital," Jim repeated. Hotch finally sighed. Nodded. The elevator door opened and Reid was swallowed inside.

"_Hotch_?" Reid squeaked weakly, his eyes growing more panicky and confused as the fatigue from the seizure began to wane. The elevator doors closed before Hotch could say anything more. Hotch turned away, sighing.

He turned and jogged back to the bullpen.

* * *

_2 hours later..._

A doctor in a white lab coat holding a clip board came out into the waiting room.

"Family of Spencer Reid?" He called, looking around. Instantly, 6 FBI agents rose, Hotch taking lead. He held out his hand.

"I'm S.S.A. Aaron Hotchner, Dr. Reid's legal next of kin... these are his colleagues," Hotch said, gesturing the rest of the team.

The doctor looked a bit uncomfortable. "He doesn't have any living blood relatives?"

Hotch sighed and nodded. He'd been expecting this. He got these questions every time Reid was hospitalized.

"He does but his mother is Non Compos Mentis... technically she is unable to make any legal decisions, medical or otherwise."

The doctor glanced around at the other agents, before turning back to Hotch.

"What is wrong with the mother?" the doctor asked earnestly, glancing back down at his clip board. Hotch frowned and looked around, more than aware of the other people waiting for loved ones in the ER's waiting room.

"She suffers from paranoid schizophrenia," Hotch said softly, his eyes steely. "Why?"

The doctor shook his head. "No real reason. Just any information you can give me on Dr. Reid's physical or mental health history would be appreciated."

"_Mental_ health?" Hotch snapped, eyebrows arching.

"That's right," the doctor said blandly, apparently oblivious to Hotch's tone. "Look, as his next of kin, could I talk to you for a moment?"

Hotch nodded immediately. He was led into a small room with two battered, beige sofas. The words "Family Interview Room" were stencilled on the door. The doctor sat on the sofa and Aaron Hotchner took the sofa across from him.

"It's too early to say definitively right now," the doctor said, and Hotch leaned forward. "But a seizure like that in an otherwise healthy young man with no prior history of epilepsy and no recent history of head injuries is highly suspect, so we did a CT scan, and based on that, an MRI."

Hotch leaned forward. "Okay,"

"Agent Hotchner, it's apparent you understand that I can't tell you that you anything for sure yet... not without a biopsy. We have Dr. Reid slated for a Stereotactic biopsy then, but even then... due to how fast the symptoms have progressed..."

"I'm sorry, Stereotactic biopsy?" Hotch questioned. His heart rate had just doubled. They were talking about biopsying Reid's brain?

"A biopsy guided by computers by a radiologist," the doctor said simply.

"W-What do you think is wrong with him?" Hotch finally blurted. The doctor sighed and interlaced his fingers.

"I'm not an oncologist, but based on the scans I've seen my guess would be a Glioblastoma of some sort..."

_Glioblastoma. Brain Tumour._ Hotch felt like the room was spinning.

"But... his symptoms! His behaviour has only changed in the last few _weeks_."

"Glioblastomas are the most common form of brain tumours," the doctor informed Hotch stonily. "But they can start as asymptomatic Astrocytomas. At any rate..."

"Glioblastoma," Hotch said evenly, testing the word out. It felt strange and scary in his mouth, like sucking on a razor blade. "You... you said Glioblastomas are_ common_?"

The doctor nodded, but he didn't look happy. "The most common of all the primary brain tumours in humans, but also, unfortunately... the most _aggressive_."

Hotch's ears were starting to ring.

"Dr. Reid, from the information you provided us shortly after he was admitted, has all the hallmark signs of this sort of tumour; frequent headaches, weakness on one side of his body... his left leg dragging? The seizure, of course. The vomiting. The unexplained aggression." The doctor spread his hands out as if it was an open and shut case.

"But you don't know for sure this is what Reid has..."

"Agent Hotchner, I realize this is a lot to take in at one time..."

"But you don't know for certain," Hotch repeated, his eyes boring into the other man's. The doctor sighed and shook his head. "No. I don't. But based on his scans, his symptoms... everything so far tells me this..."

Hotch shut his eyes. Sighed. "When will we know for sure?"

"It depends on whether they can get a proper biopsy... a craniotomy might be needed."

"How _long_?" Hotch snarled. He'd done nothing but drink black coffee since arriving at the hospital, after giving the first doctor a quick overview of Reid's symptoms, everything leading up to the collapse and the seizure.

Strange what you could learn about a person from watching them wait for news during a crisis. Rossi sat still in a seat, eyes closed, as if he was meditating. Garcia drank coffee and kept buying gummy bears from the vending machine, her eyes large and tearful. Prentiss, as usual, sat looking concerned but put together, stoic and controlled. J.J. looked tired and worried, like a mother. And Morgan had paced back and forth until one of the triage nurses had come over and told him to stop it, that he was disturbing the other guests. Morgan had stalked off to the bathroom and when he came back his face was dripping with water, the tops of his knuckles inexplicably grazed.

"They'll rush the biopsy..." the doctor said sternly, and stood, apparently finished with Hotch. "You'll know as soon as I do."

"If...if he does have this...glioblastoma...what are his chances?"

The doctor sighed heavily. Stared at Hotch with wary eyes.

"Glial tumour cells are very resistant to conventional therapies, and even then... even if we manage to cut the entire thing out, there is often..."

Hotch closed his eyes. He didn't want to hear anymore right now. Not until he knew, for the very least, if Reid actually had this... this _thing_.

* * *

The news was back. None of them had left the hospital for more than a few hours, all desperate to see Reid. Hotch asked the doctor if he could use the same family room, and waited till his agents were seated. He told them the diagnosis. The doctor- Hyde, his name was, ironically- had been right.

"The average survival time from date of diagnosis is three months," Hotch said angrily, staring at each of his agents in turn. Stopping when he got to Rossi.

Rossi's eyes were also burning with anger. Hotch would have felt pissed at God, or the Universe, or someone if any of his agents had developed this... but Reid? The youngest? The smartest? Something about Reid developing this... this _disease_ when his greatest fear was of developing a mental illness or losing his cognitive abilities seemed like a cosmic smack in the face.

And hadn't Spencer Reid been smacked upside the head by the Cosmos enough?

"But...3 months... that's _without_ any treatment right?" Garcia whimpered, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. Hotch nodded sternly.

"With treatment the average survival rate from time of diagnosis is 1 to 2 years," Hotch informed softly. Garcia shut her eyes. Morgan looked about ready to kill someone.

"The good thing is... they caught it fairly early. It's not that large, and they think it can be surgically removed. Reid's also a lot younger than the average..._ patient_ with this disease, so that is something to keep in mind."

"Besides surgery..." Morgan growled. Hotch nodded. He knew Derek Morgan well enough, knew Morgan was asking what other medical invasions Reid would have to undergo just for a shot at survival.

"Radiation therapy. Chemotherapy. Immunotherapy." Hotch stared out at the team. His eyes were burning.

Prentiss exhaled sharply.

"When can we see him?" Garcia asked then, blinking away her tears. Penelope Garcia, ever the optimist.

"They had to perform a craniotomy to get the biopsy sample. Apparently he's still unconscious..."

"Craniotomy? You mean they cut his hair?" Garcia's lower lip was trembling. Hotch nodded dourly.

"They shaved his head, Garcia."

The room was eerily silent as each agent absorbed this new information. Reid _without_ his hair. Reid's longish hair was such a part of him... seeing him without it would just be confirmation, irrefutable proof, that he was sick. Really sick.

And, worst of all, that the sickness was in his brain, physically in his brain. That the disease had attacked the one part of him that he both treasured and feared above all else.

Hotch sighed heavily. Time for another cup of cheap, black vending machine coffee. He wanted to be alert and awake when Reid woke up.

* * *

Hotch went first. Reid was awake, finally. He'd slept for a good 8 hours after the craniotomy before finally opening his eyes.

"Glioblastoma, huh?" Reid drawled, still foggy-headed as Hotch entered his room. Hotch whipped his head angrily towards the nearest nurse, wanting to displace his anger. She shrugged and shuffled out of the room.

"Relax, Hotch. It wasn't hard to figure out. I'm on an oncology ward and my head is shaved, which means a craniotomy... after a seizure, which indicates the seizure was caused by some mass or lesion... which means they needed to biopsy it. And your face gave the rest away."

"My face?" Hotch said softly, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

"Yeah. Glioblastomas are the most aggressive of all the brain tumours. Also the most common. I was, after all, raised in Vegas..." Reid trailed off. "And you don't have the world's best poker face, Hotch, despite what you might think."

Despite the gravity of the situation, Aaron Hotchner actually felt himself grin at that. He shook his head, amazed at the young man's resilience.

"You... you seem _better_." Hotch said after a moment, after the smile died away. And it was true. Reid did _seem_ better. He was stumbling over some words, his language was a bit garbled, but the aggression, the paranoia, was gone.

"I'm on anti-emetics, I think. Some sort of narcotic, although I don't think it's dilaudid. Probably oxycontin or some other similar opioid. And...and these tumours are unpredictable."

Even sick Reid was too smart for his own good. Hotch sighed and looked back down at the drug-dulled eyes.

"They're aggressive and have the poorest prognoses, Hotch, but they aren't death sentences. People _do_ survive."

Hotch nodded. Even sick, Reid was thinking about others first and himself second.

"I'm sorry, by the way..." Reid said softly, staring down at the hospital sheets. Hotch all but gaped at the younger man. Reid glanced up when Hotch failed to respond.

"Sorry for _what_?" Hotch asked tentatively.

"For...for my _behaviour_. I can't remember a lot, and I know that must seem like an excuse, especially since I have a documented eidetic memory but..."

"Reid, you're_ sick_. You have nothing to be sorry for. _Nothing_." Hotch sounded angry, and realized to his dismay that he was. He loved Spencer Reid like a son, and definitely respected and cared for the young agent. But sometimes when Reid got self-deprecating, Hotch wanted to throttle him.

"They're going to operate soon. Then radiation therapy and chemo, probably."

"When?" Hotch asked, thinking about everything he'd ever learned or heard about radiation therapy. About chemotherapy. The side effects, in particular. He held in his shudder.

"Soon," Reid said ominously, then, noticing Aaron Hotchner's expression, Reid grinned. Not a real smile, really, nothing showing his teeth. Reid licked his lips nervously.

"But sooner is better than later, right?"

"Of course," Hotch agreed.

"My Mom... you didn't tell her, did you?" Reid ventured nervously. Hotch shook his head no.

"She doesn't need to know. Not yet, at least. She has enough to worry about, what with the government trying to steal her thought..." Reid trailed off. Hotch sat still, waiting. Reid very rarely opened up like this about his personal life. The narcotics, no doubt. "But, um... Hotch?"

Hotch raised his eyebrows, waiting for Reid to continue.

"I stopped writing her... weeks ago now. I...you don't think?" Reid was stumbling over his words. He licked his lips again, and swallowed heavily. Whatever drugs he was on were taking their toll.

"I can get you stationery, Reid." Hotch said softly.

"Nothing... nothing from the hospital. Stuff from the field office?"

Hotch nodded, but Reid had already fallen back to sleep.

* * *

End of chapter 3... I hope you liked this instalment. I am not sure when I'll have a chance to update this story (or any of the others) but I promise that I will eventually. Again, thank you very much for reading and reviewing!


	4. Chapter 4: Debulked

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Four)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on?

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Author's Note:** Okay, this chapter will be short. I just want to assure anxious readers that this story is NOT a tragedy. Have some faith, people!

_**Thank you so much to all the readers who have commented on this story...I am sorry if I can't get back to everyone individually. I really appreciate all the kind words! **_

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate, however, I am not a medical professional (hell, I'm also not a criminal profiler but I still write CM fan fiction). I have tried to write this story (and will continue to try to write it) as medically accurate as possible, however, please keep in mind that I am _not_ a doctor. This is fan fiction, so please don't let a mistake or four ruin the story for you. Thanks in advance for your understanding.

* * *

Reid's surgery was already planned, less than ten hours after the pathologist confirmed the cancer.

"The quicker we operate, the better the prognosis," Doctor Hyde told Hotch when Hotch asked if, maybe, they weren't rushing things just a _little_ bit.

Reid agreed with the neurologist. "Hotch, my left foot... it's completely _numb_." He didn't have to explain much more than that. His meaning was clear: the cancer was spreading rapidly.

The team came in, visited, talked to him at length until, one by one, a nurse had to come and throw them out while they individually protested and bitched as their individual personality types allowed, much to Reid's stoned delight.

Rossi told Reid that he knew he'd be fine, that the BAU would cease to exist without Reid's incessant babbling and statistical banter. Reid grinned at that, licked his lips nervously. Prentiss wished him well, patting him on the arm, obviously uncomfortable. Prentiss was always uncomfortable with touchy-feely stuff, but her sentiments were clear: she cared for and was worried about Reid. Hotch came and went frequently, stiff-lipped as usual, serious and rigid, but every time he met the younger man's eyes he attempted a smile, and to Reid that simple effort, because it had come from _Hotch_, was perhaps the most comforting. Prentiss wasn't touchy-feely, but Aaron Hotchner generally acted as if any behaviour on his part that wasn't cool, neutral, analytical or stoically authoritarian was somehow a personal failure. So his tiny smiles of encouragement to Reid were doubly comforting, and maybe the most important and grounding of any of Reid's interactions with his team.

J.J. made small talk, telling the young man about Henry and his recent milestones while Reid bobbed his head, feigning interest. Garcia handed Reid a large gift bag covered in psychedelic colours, some flashback to the acid-droppers of the late 1960s, apparently.

Reid stared at the swirling, stretching bright colours of the bag and wondered if, subconsciously at the very least, Garcia realized how darkly ironic the choice of gift bag was. Then again, Garcia was the primary computer tech for the BAU and her office was filled with kitsch, including a mini poster from the late 70s featuring a tabby kitten dangling from a tree limb and the words "Hang in there, Baby!" scrawled below the tiny feline in powder blue bubble letters. Not to mention the assorted collection of wind-up toys and googly eyed pom-pom people.

No wonder Hotch had once joked about having her drug-tested.

"What's _this_?" Reid rasped, digging through the bag. Because he was slated for surgery and receiving his fluids through an IV, he was only allowed small sips of water to keep his throat moist, and already the fluid restriction was starting to affect his voice.

He'd received a few gifts from Garcia before, despite repeatedly asking her not to bother. He pulled out a small rectangular box, stared at. Started to laugh. It was a child's magic trick set with cartoons of the possible tricks one could learn on the front, including the ability to develop "telekinesis", "X-ray vision" and "incredible strength".

"You're sure this is a magic set, and not some box of chocolate covered peyote or something?" Reid asked, grinning manically.

"There's a difference?" Garcia asked, feigning surprise.

"Seriously, Garcia..._you really didn't have to do this_."

"Au contraire, mon cher, I _did_. It's just some fun stuff. Because I know how much you love magic. And... because this place is so incredibly _depressing_," Garcia informed Reid. Reid laughed again and put the gifts back on the side table.

"This_ is_ a hospital, you know..." Reid smirked, smiling up at the blonde tech.

"Doesn't mean they can't decorate. Anyway... I expect you to know all those tricks by the end of the week. That pen through the paper thing is getting old. I want to see something cool, like a dove, or a baby bunny rabbit..."

"No telekinesis?" Reid inquired sleepily.

"You're a profiler, sweet-cheeks, that's one magic trick you already know..."

"Thanks _Garcia_," Reid chuckled, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His eyelids looked bruised. How could they not have noticed how sick he was, for so long? Or, like Reid insisted, had the cancer really taken over his body that fast?

Either scenario was ultimately unacceptable.

* * *

"Hey, Kid," Morgan said, pulling a chair up besides Reid's bed. Reid's surgery was scheduled to commence in two hours, but he could be wheeled to pre-op at any time now.

"Hey, Morgan," Reid slurred, opening his eyes just for a minute. "What happened to Garcia?"

"She just... you know how she gets. Hospitals give her the creeps," Morgan sighed, looked at his friend. Reid's head was still bandaged from the biopsy but without his hair, and after not eating for days, Reid was starting to resemble a skeleton. Not emaciated. Not _yet_.

"You scared, kid?" Morgan asked gently when Reid opened his eyes again. Reid's breathing had started to hitch when he realized Garcia had left. Morgan was the last to bid him luck before his journey under the knife.

"Statistically, the odds are in my favour that I'll survive_ this_ surgery," Reid said shakily. His breathing was a bit faster now.

"That's not what I asked you, though," Morgan admonished gently. "I asked if you were _scared_."

"W-why would I be scared?"

"I think we both know why," Morgan said softly. Reid sat up a little. He looked suddenly panicked. As if the implications of _this_ surgery were just beginning to dawn on him.

"I'll be under general anaesthesia," Reid choked out desperately, brown eyes searching Morgan's for confirmation.

"That's right," Morgan soothed, nodding.

"I won't_ feel_ anything. And if they somehow get the anaesthesia dosage wrong, my heart rate and blood pressure will both rise, and they will adjust the drugs so that I am sufficiently sedated."

"Of course," Morgan agreed. He'd known Reid would do this. Panic.

"W-What if...what if they slip with the incision? I mean, the brain is plastic, it can repair itself, but not nearly as quickly as other organs and..."

A nurse came into his room then, knocking on the door but not waiting for an answer. She was wheeling a small metal tray, and on the tray, a hypodermic needle and a small glass bottle of clear liquid. The sight of the clear liquid in the little bottle made Reid feel dizzy; brought back a sudden flashback of Tobias Hankel and of... he glanced over. There was also a plastic wrapped box that Reid guessed contained a foley kit.

"Spencer Reid?" She asked. Reid gulped noisily and looked back at Morgan, his eyes wild. Oh yeah. The Kid was definitely scared. Morgan smiled encouragingly.

"Uh, yeah, that's me," Reid squeaked. Under other circumstances, Morgan would've laughed at the sound of Reid's voice.

"Okay, I have a shot for you and then we'll start your foley and wheel you down to the OR, okay?"

"I-I thought I'd go to pre-op first?" Reid stammered.

"Usually you would, but we're really backed up today..."

Reid nodded his head. His face was white. Morgan reached out and grabbed his hand, the one that didn't have the IV imbedded in it, and squeezed. Screw what anyone thought. Reid squeezed back tightly, his hand cold and clammy and growing sweatier by the second.

"The shot... what sort of..."

"Just a mild sedative to relax you," the nurse said calmly. "The bonus of not going down to pre-op is your friend can stay."

"O-okay," Reid choked out. He watched silently as the nurse tore the hypodermic needle out of its wrapper and injected the tip into the little bottle of... _whatever_ it was.

She injected the drug into a port in his IV line slowly, watching Reid's face as she pushed down the plunger.

"That's probably going to burn a little, maybe feel a little cold, but then you should begin to feel a little more relaxed."

Reid nodded. Watched the drug drip through his IV. Wondered when he'd feel the drug.

"Morgan?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"I dun feel any differ...ent..."

"Okay, kid," Morgan said, and smiled. "If you say so."

The nurse turned to Morgan then, and Reid heard her explain how she was going to insert the foley, how maybe he'd like to wait outside for his friend's sake. Morgan nodded.

"Reid, I'm just going to be outside, okay? Just give you some privacy?"

"'Kay," His eyes were closing. The nurse pulled the curtain around his bed and he watched heavy-lidded, feeling dazed. What had she injected into his IV?

His hospital blanket was lifted up, then the lower part of his hospital gown.

No wonder she'd given him a sedative first. Even with it, Reid realized, he felt embarrassed. He just didn't_ care_ that he was embarrassed._ Interesting_...

"Okay, this might be a bit uncomfortable," the nurse said, and Reid stiffened, despite the drugs. He felt something being snaked into his urethra.

"Tell me if you feel any pain," the nurse said distantly, as if she were some disembodied voice, and Reid nodded groggily, keeping his teeth firmly ground together. The inside of his urinary tract was on fire, but she obviously meant pain in _addition_ to that.

"Okay, we're _in_," the nurse told Reid from far away and he nodded again. He felt the catheter tubing... cool against his bare thigh as it was taped to the side of his leg. Quickly, a damp, cold cloth wiped him off. Reid sighed. He could feel his bladder emptying, could feel urine draining out of him without having to use any of the pelvic muscles usually associating with urinating. It was a strange sensation, the loss of basic bladder control after a lifetime of continence.

But it was over. The gown was pulled back down and the hospital blanket was pulled back up. He could breathe again.

"Okay, we're all done here. I can go and get your friend now, if you want?" The nurse asked. Reid nodded. Kept his eyes firmly shut.

He squinted them open when he heard Morgan reappear.

"I miss anything good?" Morgan said lightly, teasingly. Reid tried to smile through his embarrassment.

"No, Morgan,"

"Foleys suck, I know," Morgan offered by way of conversation. Reid nodded.

"So, besides the snake in your lizard... anything else on your mind?" Morgan asked, sitting back down in the chair besides Reid's bed. Reid looked at his friend with drug-glazed eyes.

"Snake? _Lizard_?" Reid said, completely confused. Morgan shook his head, grinning. For a genius, to say that Spencer Reid missed out on a lot of colloquialisms was an understatement.

"Besides not knowing that "lizard" is slang for penis and... kid, come on, spill. I know _you_."

"What if they cut something out I need, Morgan? Something that makes me..._me_?"

"Reid, you saw what they were going to cut. Just the tumour. That's_ it_."

"What if they make a _mistake_?" Reid sounded like a child, afraid of going to sleep without a nightlight. Morgan's mind raced. Reid was afraid of the dark. But the dark could be a metaphor for so many things... most obviously, the unknown. How did you give someone a nightlight to take with them into the dark of the unknown; of potential disability or death?

Morgan fiddled around his neck, unlatched his silver chain. There was a tiny crucifix attached to it. A gift from his mother that he'd been given at Communion. A gift he hadn't worn in years, for so many years, while his anger towards God raged and grew. And then, when Reid had come back from Hankel, had been okay... sometime after that Derek Morgan found himself wearing the crucifix again.

"Reid, I know this will probably strike you as illogical and irrational, but I want you to take this..."

Reid reached out and gently took the chain, the crucifix.

"They won't let me wear it during the surgery. No jewellery of any kind," Reid said sleepily.

There was the sound of sudden footsteps and two young orderlies were standing near Reid's bed with a chart.

"S. Reid?" One of the orderlies asked, glancing at Reid and then at Morgan.

Reid nodded tiredly.

"Glioblastoma excision and Ommaya reservoir insertion?" the same orderly asked again. Reid nodded again.

"Ommaya reservoir?" Morgan asked, concerned and confused. He hadn't heard about that before.

"Small plastic capsule under the scalp for... for chemo...chemo_therapy_..." Reid explained, panting. Morgan nodded tightly.

Morgan approached the orderlies and handed the first one his crucifix. "Look, I know he can't wear this during the surgery, but do you think that maybe they could hang it from his IV stand or something the second he's out?"

The orderly took the crucifix reverently and turned it over in his hand. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"Reid," Morgan said a bit louder, approaching his friend again. "I can walk with you for awhile..."

"No, Morgan," Reid's eyes were screwed shut. "Please. Just stay here."

* * *

"How much longer now?" Garcia said, pacing.

"You know, maybe you have had enough coffee, Princess," Morgan said mildly, watching her. "You think?"

"Nonsense," Garcia shot back and took a large gulp to prove her point.

"He just went in about 20 minutes ago," Morgan reminded her gently.

Prentiss and J.J. had gone home for some sleep. Hotch had insisted. Rossi had wandered off somewhere, claiming to check back within the hour.

Hotch sat stiffly in one of the cheap, plastic waiting room chairs, trying not to think about what might be going on in that OR right now. Hoping his agent, and his friend, would be okay.

"Did they say...did they say they thought they could get it all?" Garcia asked tentatively. She had momentarily put down her coffee and was staring at Hotch imploringly.

Hotch sighed. "They weren't sure. They said they'd try to take as much as they could..."

"Gee,_ that's_ helpful," Garcia said sarcastically. "As opposed to deliberately leaving a large chunk of the tumour just for fun..."

"_Okay_," Morgan snapped mildly, getting up and walking over to Garcia. He stooped and grabbed her cup of coffee before she could react. "That's it. You have definitely reached your caffeine limit."

Morgan stared at his friend, waiting for her to protest. When she didn't, he took a tiny sip and winced.

"How can you drink this stuff? It's worse than the coffee Reid makes..."

"Reid doesn't make_ bad_ coffee," Garcia argued. "He makes _strong_ coffee. It's not our fault if you can't handle the mind-enhancing brilliance of the alkaloid known as caffeine."

Morgan walked over to the nearest trash can and dropped the half-full coffee cup in the trash.

"I can just go buy some more when you go to the bathroom. And believe me, Wild-Thing, this girl knows how to chug..."

"I'll _bet_..." Morgan said, smiling softly. Despite his worry for Reid, having Garcia around was soothing. Calming.

"Hotch?" Morgan said, looking over to his superior, eyebrows raised. "A little help, here?"

Hotch turned, obviously deep in thought. "Oh...yeah. Right. _Behave_." Hotch said, smiling a little bit, as much as he could under the circumstances.

* * *

Spencer Reid woke up slowly. He felt slightly dizzy and everything was a little blurred, a little out of focus. He could hear the electronic beeping of his heart as his pulse was monitored, and his throat was sore from being intubated.

He sighed a bit and tried to sit up a little. Everything was hazy, strange. Pain meds, no doubt. Hopefully. He tried to focus on the man in the chair near his bed. Dark suit, dark hair._ Hotch_.

Hotch seemed to wake up then, seemed to sense Reid's gaze. Looked at the younger agent and smiled brightly, a huge smile for Hotch.

"Reid! How're you feeling?"

Reid tried to answer that, but he honestly didn't know. How did Hotch mean? Emotionally? Physically? And in respect to what? Finally he decided on: "throat's a bit sore,"

"How about your head?" Hotch asked gently.

"They get it all? You know?" Reid asked. He had so many questions now, now that he was starting to really _wake up_. How long had the surgery taken? Had there been any complications? Had they biopsied the tumour yet? How clear were the margins? What was coming next, did Hotch know?

Hotch glanced down, for a second unable or unwilling to meet the younger agent's eyes.

"Reid, they tried. They _did_. Some of it was in an area that was too risky to try and get to..."

"How much did they debulk? Do you know?" Reid said softly after a moment, his voice still raspy.

"_Debulk_?"

"Remove."

"I...I don't know," Hotch said honestly after a moment. Reid stared at the ceiling and sighed. He'd known before the surgery that the chances of having the entire tumour removed were next to none. He'd known, and yet... he'd still held out some hope. Because now... now it meant that he was going to have to go through radiation therapy. Chemotherapy. He shivered slightly.

"And the rest of the team?" Reid asked after a moment, still staring at the ceiling.

"All still here. Basically camping out in the waiting room. They wanted to come in, but visiting hours are over, and I had to pull rank to get in here..."

"You pulled rank?" Reid asked dubiously. Hotch smiled a little. Shrugged.

"You should tell them to go home. You too. I am not going anywhere, Hotch."

"I might order them home, but I doubt Morgan will listen, Rossi founded the BAU so that would be awkward and_ Garcia_..." Hotch trailed. Reid was smiling a little, but it was a sad smile, as if he were smiling for Hotch's benefit.

"Spencer, it's okay to feel... however you feel."

"I know that."

"And be afraid of what's coming next."

"I know that, too." Reid sighed and shut his eyes. What _was_ coming next?

"Hotch?"

"Yeah?"

"You didn't happen to get any stationery from the field office, did you? So I can write my Mom?"

Hotch stared at Reid. Blinked. He hadn't been to the field office since Reid had been hospitalized. None of them had. They'd have to go back soon, of course, Strauss would see to that... the FBI needed one of its core BAU teams, even if the smartest team member happened to be languishing in a hospital.

"Reid, while you're sick..."

"I know. You guys have to work. You can visit me when you can..."

Hotch gulped. He felt guilty, and knew it was irrational, but he still felt guilty. He was Reid's next of kin, but he was also the unit chief. Reid glanced over at Hotch and smiled gently when he saw the look on Aaron Hotchner's face.

"Hotch I know you have to work. Just because one of us gets sick, doesn't mean that the cases stop piling up."

Hotch nodded solemnly.

"Plus, Garcia will be around. She stays at the field office mostly," Reid slurred. He was falling back to sleep.

"Usually," Hotch affirmed.

"She can visit me at night, when she wants. Update you guys. But really, I'll be fine... just need some stationery and a pen. Books maybe." His eyes shut.

"Goodnight, Reid," Aaron Hotchner said softly, watching, making sure Reid was fully asleep again before quietly excusing himself.

The team would want to know that Reid had made it out of surgery; that he was doing well. At least, for the moment...

* * *

End of chapter 4, blah blah blah... more Reid-Whumping ahead. Good or bad, **please review**... and if you want to read a well-written book about cancer, I recommend "Fireflies" by David Morrell... I believe Morrell is the creator of "Rambo"...but "Fireflies" is a semi-fictionalized account of his son, Matthew's, struggle with a rare form of bone cancer.


	5. Chapter 5: Known Teratogens

**Title:**The Blue Boy (Chapter Five)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on? By now all readers of this story know that Reid has a Glioblastoma- a brain tumour- and has just had surgery to remove as much of it as possible. This chapter involves Reid's first round of chemo, but unfortunately, the team is back at work...

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate, however, I am not a medical professional. Please review.

* * *

Spencer Reid's first chemotherapy session was scheduled to commence two days after his surgery, on a Thursday. Apparently. Reid had lost count of the days.

Hotch had wanted to stay with him, but Reid had told him to go. Hotch didn't really have a choice either. He knew that Aaron Hotchner, as would most, if not all, of his team mates, would gladly use their vacation and sick days to be with him, but even if Spencer Reid were willing to let them do that, Strauss and the higher-ups would not hear of it. Cases were piling up at the BAU and Reid was in no immediate risk.

_The median range for survival after diagnosis of a Glioblastoma multiforme was 12-17 months, even with aggressive chemotherapy._ Reid sighed heavily. He'd had Hotch print out everything he could find on this specific cancer, and when he'd read through that (in a matter of about two minutes), he'd asked Garcia to bring him a laptop. His room didn't have wireless access, but the hospital cafeteria did, and he'd managed to persuade one of the nurses to let him wander down there for a short period.

He'd read about the drugs he would be taking: Something called _Temozolomide_ that was taken in capsule form with lots of water on an empty stomach. Common side effects included, but were not limited to: bruising and bleeding due to chemotherapy-induced thrombocytopenia, increased susceptibility to infection, anaemia, nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, loss of appetite, rashes, headaches, general malaise and weakness... Reid sighed heavily. He knew he could handle most of those symptoms, but what if they came together, all at once? Could he handle them all?

The other drug he'd be receiving was an intravenously administered one called_ Carmustine_. According to what he'd been told, he'd receive this drug every five weeks, spending as long as he needed in the hospital after each treatment. The side effects of Carmustine were similar to those of Temozolomide, apparently, except the nausea was said to be much stronger, in general, so he'd be getting anti-emetic drugs, too. Again, there was the risk of thrombocytopenia, but also liver and kidney toxicity, chest pain, anaphylaxis, low blood pressure and tachycardia.

Apparently he was to be put on both. Reid had done his own research and discovered that a drug called Chloroquine, which was used in the prevention and treatment of malaria, had been indicated as being potentially beneficial in killing malignant brain cells, but the efficacy hadn't yet been tested. Reid had written the drug name down though, in slightly sloppy handwriting in a notebook: _Chloroquine._

He'd also read about the antioxidant Epigallocatechin gallate, or EGCG, a component of green tea, as being potentially helpful, but again, the jury was still out on this one. When Reid had asked his oncologist about the Chloroquine, the man had smiled broadly and slightly condescendingly and told him they'd see how he fended on the traditional treatments, first.

Spencer Reid planned to buy as much green tea as he could get his hands on, though.

* * *

"Spencer!"

Reid looked up, startled. Haley Hotchner had come, carrying Jack who waved at Reid. Reid waved back weakly and leaned back into the vinyl lawn-chair type thing he was sitting in for his chemo treatment.

"Haley, you didn't have to come..."

"Aaron phoned me. He really wanted to be here, but..."

"I know." Reid said softly. He felt sick. He'd been given the anti-emetics first, then had the Carmustine injected into his reservoir. Then a nurse had come with his Temozolomide pills, a jug of water and a large plastic drinking glass with a straw. He'd asked for green tea and she'd apologized, saying they had none. He pulled out his journal and scrawled: _Next treatment bring own green tea. Room temp. Don't forget!_

"I am sort of a breathing, talking biohazard right now," Reid said, glancing over at Jack worriedly. "The stuff I am on... it's not good for Jack... it's..."

The first real wave of nausea hit him then and he tasted salty bile and reached for the bucket they'd left with him. They'd left the television on, the local news. Why they thought watching the news might be comforting to people undergoing chemo, Reid had no idea, but maybe it was to put things in perspective: _you might be puking your guts out, but at least you weren't decapitated in a five car pile-up, were you?_

Reid vomited into the bucket then, gasping between heaves. So this was the start of it. _Great._ Haley sighed and set Jack down on a currently unused hospital bed and crossed over to the young man.

"Haley, I am serious. These drugs are_ toxic_ and known teratogens... _you_ shouldn't even be in here, let alone _Jack_..."

"Good thing Jack is no longer a foetus, huh?" Haley said, smiling warmly. Reid tried to smile back but another wave of nausea hit him.

Next time he would ask for stronger anti-emetics, or more of them. _Something_.

"What's this?" Haley said as Reid leaned over his bucket again and began to vomit for the second time in under four minutes. Reid gasped and spit and finally pushed the bucket away and glanced at Haley. Took a sip of the water from his cup and made a face. Looked over at his notebook.

"That's research I am doing on Glioblastoma multiforme tumours. Mine is stage 4. Well, technically a Glioblastoma multiforme tumour is a grade 4 astrocytoma... based on what I read."

Haley nodded and picked up the notebook. "You mind?"

Reid shook his head, watching as his boss's wife flipped through the book, her eyes gently scanning over his shaky, sprawling writing.

Hundreds of facts about the tumour itself, as well as information about alternative therapies or clinical trials that looked promising but were not yet being used on actual patients. Spencer Reid was already preparing his army..._ facts_. Facts would be his soldiers in this war.

"Spencer, if anyone can beat this thing, I know _you_ can," Haley said softly, eyes shining, putting the notebook back on the little table next to Reid.

"Thank you," Reid said tiredly, grabbing for the bucket again. Haley winced in sympathy as he vomited yet again.

"Maybe you should ask them for something to settle your stomach?"

"They gave me anti-emetics before starting this round," Reid gasped, spitting stringy saliva into the bucket. His heart was pounding. Racing.

Reid was holding a cloth, which he was using to wipe off his mouth. Haley approached the young man again and gently took the cloth from him.

Jack was still lying on the hospital bed, apparently asleep.

Haley took the cloth over to the sink in the corner of his room, ran it under cold water, wrung it out and came back to Reid.

"Here," she said gently and placed the cold wash cloth against Reid's forehead. Reid shut his eyes. He hadn't realized that his head was pounding in time with his heart until the cold cloth on his head... took some of the pounding away.

"_Thank you_," Reid said softly, and let his eyes flutter shut.

Haley sat with him, watching as he slowly drifted off. She'd only met the young man a few times, but seeing him so pale, so skinny... so _vulnerable_... was heart breaking. The fact that Spencer Reid was a genius and the cancer had decided to attack his brain, of all organs, made all of this worse, somehow.

Aaron had told her the young man's prognosis. Not good. Haley didn't know Spencer Reid, not really, but as she watched him lying there, breathing in small gasps, his mouth open, reeking slightly of vomit and his head shaved and naked, she felt her eyes well with tears.

Besides the notebook full of scribbling about cancer facts and chemotherapy facts and statistics and possible therapies to try, there was also a pile of papers on the table near Reid. Haley gently picked one of the papers up. The writing, like in his notebook, was sloppy. Childish.

It was a letter to his mother that had been started and then crumpled up. Haley picked up some of the other pages. All letters to his mother. All crumpled up.

Aaron had also told her that Spencer had kept his illness from his mother; that he hadn't wanted to worry her. That Spencer's mother was a paranoid schizophrenic and that the only thing Reid had asked for after his brain tumour diagnosis was stationery to write his mother.

That... and Aaron's _forgiveness _for acting erratically in the preceding weeks. Haley sighed, and wiped at her eyes. Glanced over at Jack, who was still sleeping, his thumb corked in his mouth.

Jack would be bouncing off the walls later tonight, but that was okay. Right now, Spencer needed her.

* * *

**One week later...**

Spencer Reid lounged on his couch. The small bits of hair that had begun to grow back after his surgery were becoming wispy and falling out. He felt sick and looked it, like he had the mother of all flus. He was lying on his couch, shivering, swaddled in several blankets and his largest duvet.

The door knocked lightly. Morgan. He heard the key in his lock, the key he had given to Morgan. Since getting sick, he'd had copies of his apartment keys made and given them to each of his team members. Just in case he... _someday_... was too weak to get to the door. Or something.

"Hey kid, you manage to eat anything?" Morgan asked the second he got inside Reid's apartment.

"Not hungry," Reid said, and shut his eyes. He could smell food, Thai. A few months, or even weeks ago the smell would've been pleasing. Now he felt a surge of nausea.

"Did you take your Dolasetron?" Morgan asked, setting the food down on Reid's coffee table. Reid nodded, looking somewhat forlorn.

"Yes, and I _still_ feel like vomiting."

"Have you?" Morgan asked, looking at his friend with concern. Reid shook his head. Morgan sighed in relief. At least the kid wasn't in immediate danger of dehydration.

"How about the Boost? How many bottles of that did you manage to get down?"

"That stuff tastes awful..."

"Well, I got enough Thai for us to share if you want," Morgan offered, nodding towards the bag. Reid made a face.

"Come on, Reid, you need to eat. You need to keep your strength up."

"That consommé you got the other day was_ okay_," Reid said wearily. Morgan smiled.

"It's called _miso_, Reid. And I got you a big bowl of it, again." Morgan tilted his head towards the bag of take-out.

"Smells like Thai," Reid said drowsily. Morgan shrugged. "_I_ got Thai. I got _you_ miso soup. And another two litres of Ginger Ale. Mystery solved."

"Ginger Ale is okay, I _guess_," Reid mumbled. Morgan nodded and took the bag into the kitchen, and began to prepare their meals. Pulled out the little ceramic pill cup that Reid had purchased for himself from an antique store and placed two, large multivitamins in it.

"You sure you don't want a salad roll?" Morgan called from the kitchen. "It's just lettuce, rice wrapping, rice, and shrimp...peanut sauce. Pretty easy on the stomach."

Reid muttered something under his breath, some swear Morgan thought. Except in Latin. Derek Morgan blinked, surprised that he was not only starting to understand Reid when the younger man spoke in the dead language, but there was just something so inherently _wrong_ about knowing Latin swear words.

"You really should try to eat some more solids. Keep your stomach and..."

"_Fine_. Half a salad roll. And I _might_ be able to finish it..." Reid's voice was terse, annoyed. Eating, for Spencer Reid, had become quite an unpleasant experience.

"Okay, kid," Morgan said brightly, pleased with the younger man. Relieved.

"But_ no_ peanut sauce," Reid called quickly. "The peanut sauce reminds me of..."

"That's_ okay_!" Morgan shot back quickly. He had a pretty good idea what the peanut sauce reminded Spencer Reid of, and since he planned on dipping his two and a half salad rolls in the stuff, he didn't want that image in his mind. Hell, the rest of his dinner probably reminded Reid of all sorts of nasty things, too. Morgan shook his head, half smiling, and half grimacing. Even sick as a dog and Reid was still missing social cues left and right. He quickly cut one of the rolls in half and placed it on a little plate next to Reid's miso soup and glass of ginger ale.

"Is there a _particular _straw colour you'd like tonight?" Morgan called from the kitchen half sarcastically.

Reid had been pretty strong and independent since getting sick, but sometimes, especially since the surgery and the chemo (and he'd only had one round) he could snap. The team had discussed the side effects of his chemotherapy, as well as the common behavioural responses of cancer patients, and Reid's irritability was perfectly normal. But sometimes Reid acted like a child, becoming irrationally upset over the tiniest things.

"White and green; one of the bendy straws," Reid called back. Morgan shook his head, silently glad he'd asked. Despite himself, he couldn't help but chuckle.

Maybe Reid _hadn't_ become irritable since his diagnosis. Maybe he'd become_ feisty_. Maybe that was part of his survival strategy, whether he knew it consciously or not.

Morgan hadn't really asked Reid any serious questions yet. It was still too early, but Reid had told him that his chance of surviving past the 5 year mark was about 5% with conventional treatments. Of course, Reid had also said he was going to try every possible cure and look at every angle he could- allopathic or otherwise. And though he'd been pale and sweating when he'd said those words, his eyes had been sharp and determined.

Morgan brought the food back into the living room and set it down on the table. Reid had turned on the television and was staring at it with glassy eyes.

"I can't focus on _this_, Morgan," Reid said, obviously distressed, and muted the station. "I – I can't focus on conversations anymore! My eyes don't seem to focus properly. I have to read sentences over and over just to glean _some _meaning from them, and even then, my _memory_..." he stopped speaking to catch his breath.

"Kid, you're exhausted. You're on a bunch of medications that are dulling you. The real you is still there, just waiting until this is all over. Hibernating, if you like that metaphor. Take it easy on yourself..."

Reid nodded sullenly after a long moment. Stared down at the food. Looked over at Morgan.

"Would you believe me if I said I drank three bottles of Boost right before you came over?" The sight of the food had obviously made Reid more nauseated.

"_No_," Morgan said, trying to sound stern. "I checked your stock when I was in the kitchen."

"_Oh_," Reid said dully. He picked up the small teaspoon- he preferred the tiniest spoons for eating, so he could eat slowly- and began to nurse his miso soup.

They talked about the relative taste differences between _Ensure_ and _Boost_ over dinner, until Morgan thought his brain would implode.

"Besides pondering liquid meal replacements and their relative pros and cons, did you_ do _anything today?" Morgan asked after a quarter of an hour of listening to Reid debate which of the _Ensure_ flavours was least disgusting. Reid had nearly finished the miso, had taken the vitamins with a few sips of ginger ale, and had managed one small bite of the salad roll.

"I got a bath. I did some more research, and I ordered some green tea capsules off the internet... and drank some green tea... oh, and I finally wrote a letter to my Mom."

Reid grinned, obviously proud of himself, and showed Morgan the letter, already sealed in its envelope and stamped. He'd been trying for days to come up with an excuse for his sloppy writing, certain that his mother would notice and worry.

Morgan took the letter and glanced over at Reid, lifting his eyebrows.

"Oh, I said that my hand got injured," Reid said, shaking his head slightly. "It's not _exactly_ a lie, is it? Don't know why I didn't think of it before."

* * *

End of chapter 5. **Please review**. "The Blue Boy" is taking me longer to write than I thought it would because I have to keep looking medical stuff up, and that takes_ time_... thanks for all the reviews and constructive crit. Sorry, in advance, for any typos or grammatical errors. I am trying my best to weed them out, but they still crop up here and there.


	6. Chapter 6: Lithiated Lemon Lime Soda

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Six)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on? By now all readers of this story know that Reid has a Glioblastoma- a brain tumour- and has just had surgery to remove as much of it as possible.

**Author's Note:** Yes, I had Morgan take Reid to _St. Sebastian's hospital_ in this chapter, the same hospital Hotch was taken to after being stabbed by Foyette. I plan on writing these chapters much shorter, because they take a lot longer to write than I first anticipated and I don't want people to have to wait too long between updates.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate; however, I am not a medical professional. **Please review.**

**

* * *

**

Derek Morgan spent the night. Reid vomited twice after eating, and then tried again to consume some more ginger ale, sipping it even slower than he had the first time. Morgan got him more of his prescription anti-emetics and handed the younger man a damp, wrung out face cloth. Then he sprayed the bathroom and living room with Febreeze.

Reid's face was pale and sweaty.

"Kid...you okay?" Morgan asked, realizing how stupid that question was. Reid was gasping hard, as if he had run a long marathon.

"Out...of...breath...I think...I'm...anaemic."

"Okay, deep slow, breaths, Reid." Morgan said. Reid nodded, but his eyes looked panicky. "N-not enough oxygen..." Reid sputtered.

"Kid, I remember you telling me once something like the sensation of suffocation had nothing to do with dropping oxygen levels in the blood but rising carbon dioxide levels... something like that?"

"C-can't remember."

"Reid, I think you are hyperventilating," Morgan said worriedly. Reid was gasping, sitting up, one hand to his chest.

"I- I am okay right?" The young man said, his voice leaking incipient panic.

"I think you're having a panic attack. I think you scared yourself reading too much about chemotherapy side effects the last few days," Morgan said calmly, smoothly. He reached over and picked up one of Reid's hands and felt for the pulse. The younger man's heart was racing.

"I needed to know..." Reid gasped. "I..."

"Your heart is racing."

"That's a symptom of anaemia...tachycardia..." Reid said, leaning back and closing his eyes. A slow, scared moan escaped him. "Anaemia can lead to...congestive heart failure..."

"But not usually," Morgan admonished gently. "Your heart is fine, Reid."

"I'm_ scared_..."

They'd sent him home with some sedatives in addition to pain killers and anti-emetics. Morgan went into the bathroom and pulled the bottle of ativan out of the bathroom medicine cabinet. He gently placed two sublingual tablets in the palm of his hand and went back to Reid.

"Reid, I think you're having an anxiety attack. Here is some ativan. I want you to take these and try to calm down. I'll be with you the entire time. If it becomes easier to breathe in a little while, then we'll know this is just anxiety, okay?"

Reid nodded and took the pills. His hands were shaking.

"Under your tongue, Reid. They're sublingual."

Reid nodded.

Time passed. Eventually the younger man's breathing began to slow, and his eyelids grew heavier.

"Better?" Morgan asked gently, pulling Reid's throw over his chest and shoulders. Morgan got up, returned to Reid's bathroom, and filled the hot water bottle with extremely warm water. He returned and handed the water bottle to Reid, who took it eagerly and cuddled into the warmth.

"I-I... I have never panicked before. Are you sure it was a panic attack?"

"They're going to check your blood in a few days- white blood cells, platelets, red blood cells... all of it, right?"

Reid nodded, and snuggled into his throw and half curled up on his sofa, his head gently resting on one, slightly curled hand.

"Well, we'll know for sure then."

"Okay."

"You want to watch television?"

"Morgan?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Will you send off my mother's letter tomorrow? When you leave?"

"Of course. You want to watch _Myth-busters_?"

"Okay." Reid's voice was groggy, on the verge of unconsciousness.

* * *

Morgan woke up with a start. He'd fallen asleep in Reid's easy chair. Reid was up and awake, pacing, gasping... freaking out. Moaning.

His face was covered with blood. Blood was leaking from his nose steadily, down the front of his philtrum, over his lips and chin and onto his shirt.

"Morgan!" He gasped, and the terror from earlier was amplified a hundred fold. "Morgan,_ help_!"

Derek Morgan sprung out of the chair. "Reid? What_ happened_?"

"I...I don't know. I woke up...and there was just _so much blood_...I feel _dizzy_."

The front of Reid's shirt was covered in blood. Morgan quickly went to his friend, and guided him back to the couch. Tilted his head back.

"Can't breathe...blood down my throat." Reid gasped. "_Posterior_ nosebleed. Won't _stop_." Reid was almost shrieking with fear. "_Blood down my throat_."

"Reid, what is this? Do you know what happened? Did...?"

"_Thrombocytopenia_...from..." Spencer Reid was gasping. "Chemotherapy. Reduced platelet count. Didn't hurt myself. Not enough platelets now... _maybe_... spontaneous..." Reid was ashen. Morgan ran to the bathroom and came back with a towel. His own heart was hammering.

"How long Reid? How long?"

"I don't know. I don't know." He licked his lips out of habit and then grimaced at the taste of the blood. Morgan felt Reid's neck for a pulse- it was fast and weak.

"Anything more than... quarter hour... we gotta go... hospital, gonna_ faint_ Morg...an." Reid was pressing the towel to his nose weakly, his eyes fluttering.

"Reid!" Morgan said sharply. "Come on, man. Stay with me. Come on buddy." Reid was slumped over, eyes dilating. "_Spencer_!"

Reid's eyes fluttered open then. "_Dizzy_," Reid croaked. He was gasping.

Morgan pulled his cell phone out and began to dial 9-1-1 when Reid shook his head.

"Phone..._taxi_. Ambulance will take at least fifteen minutes this time of night. There is a motel six blocks from here. Phone _black top cabs_..." and he gave Morgan the number. Morgan punched it in, not wanting to argue. As long as Reid stayed awake.

"Okay, kid, let's go wait outside." He grabbed his jacket and helped Reid to his feet. Reid was swaying like a drunkard.

"Keep your head back kid," Morgan said gently. "Come on...slow breaths, like me. It's going to stop. Just listen to my voice. Just nice slow breaths."

Luckily Reid's building had an elevator as well as a stairwell. They took the elevator down, Reid still holding the hand towel over his nose. It was already soaked with blood.

"If I faint...tell them... thrombo...l-low platelets...need platelet...transfusion...and from chemo..." Reid was trailing, stuttering. He was trying to stay conscious and alert, Morgan knew that. He was trying and losing the battle.

They walked out into the cool night and sat down on the front curb, waiting for the taxi. Within seconds the taxi pulled up and Morgan helped Reid into the backseat.

"I ain't gonna have no drunk _bleeding_ in my car!" The taxi driver snapped.

"He's not a drunk. He has cancer. We need to get to Saint Sebastian's hospital right now... I'll pay you 50 dollars in addition to the fare if you can get us there in under..."

The taxi screeched out of the lot.

* * *

Reid was lying in a hospital bed, but he was awake. Still pale, but not that horrible white-gray anymore and his lips were no longer tinged with purple.

His blood work had been rushed.

"I'm anaemic," Reid told Morgan when Morgan came in. "They told me. Severely. Also have thrombocytopenia... my platelet count was less than 10,000 per microliter." Reid had an oxygen mask on and had taken it off for a moment to speak to Morgan.

"They want to start me on a platelet growth factor called Oprelvekin."

"Jesus, kid, you're becoming a walking pharmacy."

Reid smiled morosely and replaced the oxygen mask.

"At least they won't put me on Lithium Carbonate..." Reid said from behind the mask, and sighed, his breath steaming up the inside of the clear rubber.

"Why would they put you on Lithium?" Morgan asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"Sometimes Lithium Carbonate can stimulate the bone marrow to produce more platelets..." Reid slurred, and closed his eyes. He looked exhausted.

Morgan watched him. He was certain the kid was asleep, when the long, slender fingers of the young genius reached up and removed the oxygen mask again.

"Did... did you know that 7-up, the soft drink, was once called _Bib-Label Lithiated Lemon Lime soda_... two weeks before the Wall Street crash of 1929?" Reid mumbled. His eyes were still shut.

"I did not know that," Morgan said, smiling at his friend's proclivity to dispense with trivia at the oddest of times.

"Yeah, it was. It was originally marketed as a hangover cure. Its name was eventually changed to 7-up to represent the atomic mass of Lithium. Seven Daltons. Lithium was removed from the drink in 1950."

"That's really cool...Reid..." Morgan said softly. But Spencer Reid had fallen asleep.

* * *

End of chapter 6, I know it's shorter than I usually write, chapter-wise, but I wanted to update again.


	7. Chapter 7: Stubborn

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Seven)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on? By now all readers of this story know that Reid has a Glioblastoma- a brain tumour- and is undergoing chemo to treat it.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate; however, I am not a medical professional. **Please review.**

**

* * *

**

Derek Morgan came in early to work, but Penelope Garcia was even earlier.

"Hey, sweet-cheeks! You look... are you _okay_?" Garcia asked concernedly as Morgan stalked into the bullpen. He nodded dully, but in all honesty, the man was exhausted. He'd sat with Reid for hours, until Reid had been admitted and gotten a bed in an actual room, instead of just a gurney in the ER. They- Reid's doctors- wanted to keep an eye on his platelets, make sure he wasn't alone if another nosebleed... _or other sort of bleed_... occurred.

"Is that _blood_ on your shirt?" Garcia said, sounding even more worried. "_Morgan_?"

"Yeah," Morgan said softly. "Reid had a nosebleed."

"That looks like a_ lot_ of blood..." Garcia trailed, and then looked away. "_Nosebleed_?"

Morgan sighed. "His platelets are dropping really fast, because of the chemo meds. Apparently chemotherapy can... can..._I just forgot what I was going to say_..." Morgan shut his eyes tiredly, and rubbed them. They were burning.

"I need coffee," he added, and walked towards the small room the team used as a kitchen. Garcia trailed him.

"The chemo is reducing his platelet count?" She asked. He nodded darkly.

"Yeah, something called thrombocytopenia. _Chemotherapy-induced thrombocytopenia_. He... he was really bleeding."

"So basically his blood won't clot? Sort of like in haemophilia?" Garcia asked. Morgan shrugged.

"Something like that. Hence, the excessive amount of blood. You'd have to ask Reid for the particulars. God, Pen...he was so_ scared_. It happened when he was asleep. He woke up and there was blood everywhere... if he hadn't woken up and gotten_ me _up..." Morgan trailed, not wanting to think about what-if scenarios.

Garcia nodded solemnly. "How's he doing? Our little genius?"

"Last time he was awake he was rambling about 7-Up."

"The _soft drink_?" Garcia asked, smiling a little, despite the seriousness of the situation.

"Yeah...something about the atomic weight or mass or _something_ of Lithium...and how 7-Up used to have Lithium in it."

"_Really_?" Garcia asked, raising her eyebrows. "I knew about Coca Cola having cocaine in it, but not Lithium in 7-Up. _Jeez_. Were all soft drinks originally drugged?"

"I guess. Old fashioned root-beer really was alcoholic," Morgan said. "I know, because my Mom used to make it from sassafras, and I'd get slightly buzzed off it as a kid. Hence the term root_ beer_... as for other soft drinks, you'd have to ask Reid."

"Can't really call _alcoholic_ root-beer a_ soft_ drink then," Hotch said suddenly, startling his agents. Morgan and Garcia both turned.

"The term _soft drink_ implies that the drink doesn't contain alcohol, as opposed to _hard drinks_... and you're talking about soda pop _because_?..." Hotch was smiling slightly.

"Something Reid said last night at the hospital," Morgan explained, knowing that he would be telling Hotch and the rest of the team about the latest incident with Reid anyway.

"_What_?" Hotch narrowed his eyes. "Reid's in the hospital?" Hotch stared closely at Morgan, all trace of the smile gone from his face now.

"Kid woke up with the mother of all nosebleeds last night. Apparently his platelet count is so low now that he can spontaneously bleed all over the place... a side effect of the chemo."

Hotch sighed tiredly and shook his head in dismay.

"How's he taking _this_?"

"You know _Reid_. He started rambling off statistics once they got him settled and gave him some platelet transfusion."

"He woke up with a nosebleed?" Hotch prodded. Morgan nodded tiredly.

"He knew what was going on, luckily, but he still panicked. Even knowing what it was, he was panicky."

Hotch's expression was almost angry. Angry at the situation, Morgan knew.

"You have his blood on your shirt, Morgan. You have clothes here?"

"I have my go-bag..."

"Go get changed. The rest of the team doesn't need to see you covered in Reid's blood." Hotch said, not unkindly. Morgan nodded dully.

* * *

"If I keep getting platelet transfusions... that should work, _right_?" Reid's voice was determined. His doctor wanted to decrease or possibly even change his chemotherapy, and Reid wouldn't hear of it.

Yeah, the bloody volcano that had erupted from the back of his nose the night before had been terrifying, but the chemo was his best chance at long-term survival.

"If you bleed out at your apartment... Dr. Reid, be _reasonable_. If you bleed out, the most aggressive treatment in the world hasn't accomplished anything except sped up your death. You can't even hold down your food from what you and your friends have told me. You're dropping weight _very_ quickly..."

"Then put a nasogastric tube in," Reid snapped. "I still might vomit, but there is a greater chance _more _of the food will be absorbed..."

"NG tubes increase risks of nosebleeds in people who don't even have low platelet counts," the doctor told Reid patiently. "And you're already bleeding spontaneously."

"So then it shouldn't make much of a difference, should it?" Reid countered.

The doctor sighed. "Dr. Reid, if we lower the dosage, or increase the intervals between treatments..."

"I looked at the other meds. The cocktail I am currently on is most efficacious. And the more aggressive the treatment, well... _I will kill this thing_."

"And if you're home alone, and don't wake up next time you have a bleed?"

Reid considered this. Knew the team couldn't be with him all the time, not even one member. His insurance, however, was excellent.

"I...I...my insurance will cover a live-in nurse. She can watch me while I am asleep, and during the days I can monitor myself."

The doctor seemed to consider this. The young man's eyes were bright and passionate. The oncologist had tried to hammer home how poor his prognosis was, but the young man in front of him apparently would not hear of it. Would not believe he was _capable_ of dying. Then again, out of the few patients Dr. Jeffrey Stapleton had had that had survived this particular cancer, all of them had been passionate and determined to live, more than any other factor.

"I _am_ going to survive_ this_," Reid ground out, as if reading the oncologist's mind. Stapleton bobbed his head in what could only loosely be called an affirmation.

"I have no doubt you'll fight this with everything you have," the doctor admitted, aiming for the middle ground.

"No. Have you even read my medical files?" Reid snapped, his eyes burning. "I'll be damned if_ this_ kills me. My Karnofsky Performance Score is pretty good. It's encouraging."

"Right now your KPS is between 30-40," Stapleton informed. He didn't want to tell the young man before him that it was actually lower.

"It's not _that_ low," Reid argued.

"Dr. Reid, you've been admitted to the hospital. You're not at risk of imminent death, but you require special care and help."

"That's only since the chemo..." Reid shot back. "Because of the nausea and now the thrombocytopenia. The initial KPS at time of diagnosis is a more accurate predicator of long-term survival and mine was about 80, 70 at the lowest."

Stapleton sighed. He knew there was no use arguing with Spencer Reid.

"Not to mention that my MGMT gene is methylated... my initial KPS was at_ least_ 70; I am under 50 and have had surgical removal of over 95% of the original tumour, not to mention good neurological functioning and... that puts my chance of surviving to 5 years somewhere between 4 and 14% approximately."

Stapleton nodded. Closer to 4%, probably, given how fast the young man was losing weight, but...

"You'll put in an NG tube then? For continuous feeding?"

Jeffrey Stapleton sighed tiredly.

"Look, on anti-emetics, if I am being _continuously_ fed, I am obviously going to digest more. Even if I continue to vomit regularly. Right? I have to try this, because I am not _backing_ off on the chemo..."

"You'll need a nurse to show you how to feed yourself, and I won't sign off on this until you get a live-in care provider."

Reid nodded. He would be here a few more days anyway. Plenty of time to find someone.

* * *

Not sure how accurate this chapter really was, but I know that NG tubes are sometimes put in, mostly in palliative cases, but Reid is really determined to live (and I will say it again- this is not a death fic)! Again, I researched as much as I could, but I don't know anyone who has ever had a Glioblastoma, so there may very well be mistakes. *shrugs* It's fiction... please **review.**


	8. Chapter 8: Tantrum

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Eight)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on? By now all readers of this story know that Reid has a Glioblastoma- a brain tumour- and is undergoing chemo to treat it.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate; however, I am not a medical professional. **Please review.**

**

* * *

**

"Reid?"

There was a lot of crashing and banging and swearing coming from Spencer Reid's bedroom. Morgan gently shut and bolted the front door and dropped the keys onto the coffee table, before making his way across to the young man's bedroom. Reid was swearing like a trucker, profanities in techno-color, his voice high pitched and anguished.

"Reid!" Morgan creaked open the bedroom door. Reid was throwing clothes around his room, his face pale and drawn, except for his cheeks, which were flushed.

"_Motherfuc_..."

"Reid, what's going on?"

Spencer Reid glanced up at his friend, his eyes burning with anger and resentment and pain.

"I got the nurse like Stapleton _wanted_," Reid breathed, almost choking on the words. "I got the insurance to cover it. He said my KPS is only 30, and now he won't put me on an NG tube..." Reid picked up a book, something heavy that Morgan couldn't read the title of. The book was thrown at the wall and collided with a heavy bang. It made a dent in the wall, and some of the plaster fell like a stream of dust, vaguely reminding Morgan of decay and ashes and Mummies and ancient tombs. Reid was shaking heavily.

_Ashes to ashes; dust to dust._ Morgan shook the thought away.

"My KPS isn't 30 or 40; if it were, I wouldn't be able to do_ this_!" He threw another book, something heavy that had the word _Quantum_ on the front of it. It hit the window and the window cracked, the sound like ice splitting.

"Reid, that's _enough_!" Morgan barked.

Morgan took a deep breath. He had no idea what Spencer Reid was talking about or what had caused this meltdown.

"Spencer!" Morgan said sternly. Reid had another book in his hand and it hit the wall and broke apart at the seams. Reid glanced over at Morgan, and his face screwed up in pain.

"It's not 30! 30 is almost dead! It's at least 70, and probably still 80!" His voice was choked and desperate, bordering on a wail.

"I'm sure you're right. Your IQ is 187. I doubt Stapleton's is anywhere near that high," Morgan said gently, trying to lighten the mood. Reid thought about this for a second and then coughed out what sounded like a sob.

There was nothing left in the room to be thrown that hadn't already been thrown.

Morgan forced himself to remain calm. Like he would with an UnSub, maybe, or a victim... or anyone in a crisis. But this was _Reid_, his best friend, and it was hard to remain detached.

"What are you talking about, though?"

"My Karnofsky performance scale. It is an indication... the lower the number the worse..." Reid didn't finish. He had grabbed a small knick knack from his desk, an object he'd apparently not seen a second ago, what looked like a glass globe. He threw it and it instantly shattered into a million small pieces upon impact, tiny crystalline shards spraying over the floor, as if it had been designed to be thrown and not admired.

"He wants to change my chemo regimen. Not treat this as aggressively, but I know what he thinks... he thinks I am already _dead_. He just wants me to be _comfortable_."

Morgan tried to absorb the information. Nurse? Karnofsky scale?

"Reid, start from the beginning."

For a sick, pale man undergoing chemo Reid was throwing things like a pro. He stalked back to his closet. Morgan crossed the room and grabbed him lightly around the shoulders, all-too-aware of how easily Reid was bruising these days, and guided him over to the bed.

"Reid! Stop it! _Stop it_. Talk to me, man." He wanted to add something like: _use your words_, but he guessed that would only piss Reid off more.

Reid was breathing hard. Part of it was the anaemia, no doubt. The rest was pure emotion.

"My oncologist wants to slow down the chemo because of the side effects. He said if I got a nurse to watch me at night, he'd put in an NG tube so my body has a chance to absorb more nutrients and I won't lose weight as quickly. So I got a damned nurse, and now he says that I am not a candidate for the tube, but she's still coming. She starts tomorrow; she's going to be here to make sure I am _okay _at nights..."

Reid sank onto the bed. His entire body was shaking, trembling.

"You got a nurse?" Morgan asked, trying not to sound too pleased. He'd been worried about Reid alone, at nights... the vomiting had been bad enough, but after the nosebleed Morgan had been secretly terrified. He was there as often as work permitted but on the days they were away overnight on cases, Reid was alone. Reid nodded solemnly.

"He says he won't put in an NG tube now, that we should change my chemo or reduce it if it's making me this sick... but if we reduce it this _thing won't die_..." Reid trailed, and he was biting his lower lip. His fingers were moving, clutching at his duvet as if he wanted to tear it up. "It _has _to die, because if it doesn't..." he didn't have to finish the sentence.

"Is he going to change your chemo regimen?" Morgan asked carefully. Spencer shrugged.

"I don't know. He said I am not a candidate for an NG tube, but he promised one if I got the nurse, so he's a damned liar. Not a candidate yet, anyway. Not_ yet_. I want one. I want one to get stronger, so my body has a chance to absorb food, so I am stronger and can fight and will be fine and beat _this_..."

"Did you eat today?" Morgan asked, cutting him off. Reid nodded miserably, and then turned his face away, ashamed. He looked ready to burst into tears again.

"Yeah, but I threw it up."

"Okay," Morgan exhaled heavily. "Did you take your..."

Reid was back on his feet. Whatever rage was driving him would not be easily extinguished.

"Of course I did! I _still_ got sick! Like _always_! Two and half weeks and I am losing weight every day!"

Morgan nodded, and knew it was true. Reid was gaunt, his face skeletal. He'd always been thin, bordering on skinny, but now, now... within the span of a few weeks he'd somehow bled over into the nearly-but-not-quite-emaciated category. The circles under his eyes, always dark, looked like smudges of black paint, almost, they were so dark. And shaking the way he was, his teeth chattering with fear and adrenaline, Spencer Reid reminded Morgan of one of those animated skeletons from the 30s, the ones that dance and play xylophones. No wonder Reid was freaking out.

"You know, there are other anti-emetics, Reid. Maybe something else will be better. Will work better. Let you..."

"I don't want to_ talk _Morgan! He promised! He promised the tube!"

Derek Morgan had never seen his friend act so irrationally. Reid was having a temper tantrum. His room looked like a cyclone had hit it.

"Maybe the nurse is a good thing... if you get another bleed or something, there will be someone here with you when I can't be here, or Hotch can't be, or..."

"I don't want a stranger in my house!" Reid snarled. He was pacing around slowly, gasping between paces. "I don't want a stranger! I only agreed because he said I'd get a feeding tube! I need to get stronger! If I keep losing weight like I am... you know what will happen!"

"But if her _job_ is to watch you at night, then you'll be safer. I fall asleep. Reid... _Spencer_... if you hadn't woken up that night and gotten me up..."

"But I _did_ wake up!" Reid argued, unusually stubborn.

"Reid, maybe treating this less aggressively is..."

"What? You want me to be _comfortable_? Is that it?" The tone had a daring quality:_ say it Morgan. Say I am going to die. _Morgan shook the feeling off, blinked slowly.

"There are other anti-emetics. Other chemo options. It's not one size fits all, Reid."

"We need to kill_ this_." Reid said, but his pacing had slowed. He was gasping harder, all the pacing and throwing and yelling had exhausted him.

"We will," Morgan said gently. "We _will_."

"What if... what if we_ can't_?" It came out in a rush. Reid looked up, and his eyes looked hollowed out, his lips bloodless and almost colorless. He was wearing a hat Garcia had knit him, some red and blue striped monstrosity. Garcia had made him several, including a green Cthulhu hat with tentacles for his bald head that was so gallows humour that Morgan had been worried Reid might take the gift the wrong way. But Reid had just laughed and grinned a wacko little smile and hugged the tech. Not for the first time, Derek Morgan wondered if he would ever fully understand either Boy Genius or their zany Computer Tech. Probably Not.

Combined with his sweater vests and mismatched socks, Garcia's hats made him look more like a psych patient than a cancer patient.

"What if we _can't kill it_?" Reid repeated, more insistently.

"We _will_," Morgan assured his friend. Reid came back over to his bed and sank onto it again. He lay down, and covered his face with his hands.

Morgan crossed over and sat down next to Reid. Lay down next to him. Stared at Reid's ceiling dazedly.

"I made a chess board today," Reid said tiredly, face still covered, voice a low murmur.

"Oh?"

"Not a regular chess board. Both sides are white, because I am playing against myself, and there is double the number of pawns, just to make it more difficult. It's a cancer chess game. I am trying to figure out how to win against myself."

Morgan shut his eyes. "Who is winning so far?" He asked blandly, suddenly feeling exhausted himself.

"_Me_." Reid said dully. "But I haven't figured out what that means yet."

* * *

Reid was napping and Morgan had cleaned up the glass shards and vacuumed and rearranged the books. Hung the clothes back up. Reid slept through the vacuum, curled slightly on his left side. Almost, but not quite, in a foetal position. Morgan went into the living room and opened the windows, aired the place out- the house smelled of vomit, so he sprayed Febreeze everywhere and lit some candles. He took out the garbage, loaded the dishwasher and then washed his hands several times before rubbing hand sanitizer into them, fully aware of how easily Reid could contract illnesses now. He went back to Reid's bedroom. Reid was still out like a light. He smiled slightly; glad for every small, positive moment, dimmed Reid's light and gently eased the door closed. Walked back into the living room and sat down on the sofa.

He pulled out his cell and dialled Hotch's number, waiting patiently as the phone rang. It was almost 8 at night, so Jack was probably in bed.

"Aaron Hotchner," Hotch said when he picked up.

"Hotch? It's Morgan. I'm at Reid's."

"How's he doing?" Hotch said, and his voice lowered a bit. Morgan could hear the television on in the background, and Hotch speaking to someone- most likely Haley. There was movement and the sound of the television became dimmer and dimmer until it vanished altogether.

"How's Reid doing?" Hotch asked again.

"I came over after work to check on him and he had pulled his clothing out of his closet and was throwing it around in a rage, swearing at the top of his lungs. Threw every book he owned against his bedroom wall, it looked like, and broke the window... I am going to try and phone a window repair service tomorrow when I get into the office. Tonight I guess I'll just duct tape the cracks."

Hotch was silent, absorbing. "What set him off?"

"Apparently his oncologist wants to change his chemo treatment, reduce it, because of the side effects and Reid is determined that the man has given up hope on him and thinks he's a lost cause. So he freaked out. I can't say I blame him. The upside is that his doctor- Stapleton- told Reid that if Reid got a nurse to watch him at nights, he'd put in a nasogastric feeding tube. So Reid got insurance to pay for a live-in nurse for nights, for as long as he is ill, but his doc told him that if he got a nurse he'd get the tube, and then went back on his word. Hence, the temper tantrum. That's what I've been able to make of it, anyway. So far."

"I have to say, I am relieved. About the nurse, I mean." Hotch said after a long moment.

"Me too," Morgan said, feeling a little guilty. "I know Reid hates the idea, but if something does happen at night, well... it's her job to watch him, and, unlike one of us, she is a trained medical professional, at the very least. Reid also said something about his doctor wanting to readmit him because he is getting sick too often and is dehydrated, so a nurse should be able to put in a basic IV, right?"

"One would hope so," Hotch said dryly.

"I think it's more than the nurse, though, or not getting the tube. The kid is _scared_, Hotch. I mean, _really scared_. I didn't have the guts to ask him point blank earlier, and he was too angry anyway, but I think this disease is starting to hit home, the reality of it. He asked me what would happen if we _can't kill it_, and his eyes... he looked horrified. I've seen Reid in some pretty bad places before, and I've never seen him look _that_ freaked out."

There was a prolonged moment of silence. "Do you want me to come over?"

"I don't know how he'd respond to that. I'm scared if he does have another freak-out and punches something or otherwise hurts himself, he might start bleeding. His platelet count is apparently up again, but if..."

"I can be there in thirty minutes this time of night," Hotch offered simply.

"He'll know I phoned you, that I told you about the tantrum. That might upset him. He's pretty emotionally volatile right now. I think I can handle him tonight. Last time I checked he was completely out of it, napping on his bed."

"You sure?" Hotch asked.

"Yeah, I think...I think I am going to phone Garcia. See if I can't get her to do some research for me. Statistics for different chemo treatments, look up info on different anti-emetics, whatever. Even print out stories of survivors and what they did. Anything to keep Reid emotionally afloat."

"Sounds like a good plan," Hotch affirmed.

"Thanks."

"Morgan?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a really good friend. Reid's lucky to have you."

Now it was Derek Morgan's turn to be silent. To absorb.

"He'd do the same for me if the situation were reversed." Morgan said simply, before disconnecting. He then dialled Garcia and told her what he'd told Hotch, smiling as he almost heard Garcia's eyes bug out at the idea of Spencer Reid swearing and throwing things.

"Our poor little G-man," She said softly when he was done. Morgan sighed tiredly.

"Garcia, I need you to do some research. You know what he's currently on for chemo... any research on other chemo meds that show any efficacy for the same cancer. I'll need stats. Also, a list of all other possible prescription anti-emetics, um, and... I was wondering about..."

"_What_, Baby-Cakes?" Garcia said.

"Do you know what states have legalized medical marijuana?"

He was half expecting a laugh, or a joke, or something, but instead he heard rapid typing on the keyboard.

"15 states have legalized medicinal marijuana, and yes, Virginia is one of them."

Morgan breathed a sigh of relief. "_Really_?"

"I can read you the list if you want." Garcia offered.

"No, baby-doll, I believe you. How does that work? How could we get Reid involved in a_... program_ like that or...?"

"This isn't Amsterdam, Hot-Stuff. No doctor is going to prescribe Reid dope. You're going to have to find Reid a dealer, but if you do...in theory he can't be fined or get in legal trouble for using pot to treat cancer. Not here."

"Okay," Morgan said. "That's _sort_ of useful. Thanks, Princess."

"I, uh... not that I have ever smoked..." Garcia trailed. "I have some pals from University. I could probably get Reid..."

"Penelope Garcia, am I to understand that you were a pot head?" Morgan said, grinning.

"I didn't say anything of the sort. I said I might know where I could legally get..."

"_Right_. Cell phone paranoia. Gotcha'."

"He must be really...he must be really sick if you're talking about dope. I mean..."

"He _is_," Morgan said seriously, no trace of a smile left in his voice.

"One other thing...he's _really_ scared. Any information you could get your hands on about survivors of this, what they did, what steps they took, anything inspirational. I think Reid needs every ounce of hope we can cram into that genius brain of his right now."

The sound of typing started up again with a vengeance, sounding like gunfire. "Got it. What do you want me to do with all this stuff?"

"I'll be in early tomorrow morning, and if we get a case, would you mind driving it over to Reid's after work?"

"Wouldn't mind one cubit, Sexy..."

"Uh, yeah. Okay. Thanks, Pen. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you," Garcia said softly, before disconnecting. Morgan sat staring at the phone for a moment, smiling tenderly. Then he went to wake Reid. He needed to at least get some water and ginger ale and vitamins into the kid. Reid's lips were pale and cracked. He was obviously dehydrated, his eyes blood shot from puking. Morgan went into the kitchen and filled a cup with water, another with ginger ale, pulled out some of Reid's pain medications and anti-emetics and his vitamins and put everything on a tray. He took the liquids to Reid's room, nudged the door open. Reid was still asleep, face eerily pale and still in sleep, like a porcelain doll's face, the long eyelashes almost black in contrast. Still as a death mask.

"Hey, Kid. Come on, wake up. I gotcha some water and Ginger Ale and then you can..." Morgan put the tray down on the night table besides Reid's bed and gently shook Reid. Reid moaned and swatted at Morgan's hand, as if Morgan was a pesky insect.

"Kid, come on. You need to drink some water, take some pills, then you can go back to sleep."

"_Morrrrrgaaaaan._ I was sleeeeping!" Reid whined.

"Come on, Kid. Just drink some water, and you can go back to sleep."

Reid shut his eyes and flopped back down.

"Reid! I've had enough of you acting like a 5 year old _for one night_..." Morgan stopped himself. Reid slowly opened his eyes, and the expression in them was both betrayed and wounded. Morgan silently kicked himself.

_Damnit._

"You're_ right_," Reid said, sounding very tired and defeated. "Just give me the water."

Morgan handed him the cup and Reid gulped it down, obviously thirsty, stopping only to gasp for air and finally swallow the pills. Then he collapsed back into a heap and within seconds was asleep again.

* * *

Next chapter will be longer. I realize that a lot of the last few chapters have taken place at Reid's apartment, but this story is about Reid and right now he is pretty sick and more or less housebound with exhaustion. Hope you liked it! I am really tired and spacey right now, and I did read this through a few times and spell and grammar check so if there are still typos, please accept my forgiveness in advance. **Please review **(blah, blah, blah, same old drill)!-Lexikal


	9. Chapter 9: Nursed

**Title:** The Blue Boy (Chapter Nine)

**Author:** Lexikal

**Fandom:** Criminal Minds

**Summary:** Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on? By now all readers of this story know that Reid has a Glioblastoma- a brain tumour- and is undergoing chemo to treat it.

**Rating:** T

**Spoilers:** Please read the first chapter for all the longer notes/warnings/etc...

**Medical Notes:** I did look up what I could so that the medical stuff is somewhat accurate; however, I am not a medical professional. **Please review.**

**Chapter Note: **I did look up states that allow the use of medical marijuana in the last chapter, but it was kind of confusing- I couldn't find out over the net how the pot would be distributed. I know the US is very anti-drug in nature; I live in Vancouver, BC, Canada and in this city you can walk around with a joint in front of a cop and usually they won't do much, if anything (there is a reason many of the locals here call Canada Day, _Cannabis _Day). But just because BC is so care-free about marijuana, I didn't want to assume Virginia would be equally as easy-going, so even though I did what little research I could, I still couldn't figure out if a doc could prescribe marijuana or not. So if I got some of those details wrong, please ignore and keep reading.

**Additional Note:** I am really feeling tired and drowsy these days, and am having trouble keeping my stories straight (when you have more than one multi-chapter story going at the same time it becomes a little hard to keep them all straight in your head, anyway). Please accept my apology in advance if I screw up the grammar or let typos slip by (I know how annoying they can be when you're reading) or worse, if I somehow let a glaringly large plot-hole slip into this story. I could wait, in theory, until I feel more grounded and clear-headed but I have no idea when that will be, so I figured just to try my best and hopefully this will make some sort of sense. Thanks for all the reviews! You guys make my day!

* * *

Morgan stayed the night, sleeping on Reid's sofa, both surprised and heartened when his watch alarm went off and the kid had remained sleeping for the entire night, not getting up even once to vomit.

Morgan got up and stretched and yawned and padded to his friend's room. Hopefully a good night of sleep and water and pain killers might've eased Reid's anger a little.

"Morning, Kid," Morgan said, walking over to Reid's bed and shaking him gently. Reid groaned and licked hip lips. They were still cracked, but didn't look as pale, as cracked.

"You spent the night?" Reid asked, swallowing, eyes still sleep-swollen and full of crud.

"Yeah. You have a really comfortable sofa," Morgan said simply. "I have to get ready for work, was going to put coffee on. Would you like some?"

"Coffee is a..." Reid trailed off. "I can't...I _know_ the word, but I can't think of it."

"_Diuretic_?" Morgan prompted. Reid nodded and sighed with exasperation.

"Yeah,_ that_."

Morgan nodded simply. He'd never seen Spencer Reid unable to remember a word before. But it seemed to really upset Reid.

"Okay, so you couldn't remember the word, Reid. Big deal. What do you want to say about coffee?" Morgan soothed.

"It dehydrates you. I shouldn't drink it. It also is highly acidic and can cause increased nausea so..."

"So no coffee then," Morgan said simply. "Got it. Look, I was going to make myself some breakfast, you want some?"

Reid made a noise, something between a gag and a whine.

"Reid, you need to put weight on, remember? I picked up some bacon and eggs before I came over last night. You want some bacon and eggs?"

Reid seemed to consider this. "What if...if I get _sick_?"

Morgan smiled gently at the younger man. "We just try it. If you get sick, you get sick, but if you keep it down, great. Bacon and eggs are really high in calories, and fat."

"Okay," Reid breathed tiredly. Morgan smiled, encouraged.

"Great. How about some milk to drink with them? Or some boost?"

"If I am going to eat solids, I might as well try the boost," Reid said bravely, although he already looked sickly. The very idea of eating seemed to have made him nauseated.

"Great. Vanilla boost?"

Reid made a noise like a snort. "They all taste _terrible_..."

"They don't taste _that_ bad. I had a few of them, they were okay. A little like _Carnation Instant Breakfast_..." Morgan encouraged.

"_Carnation Instant Breakfast_ tastes horrible too, and I find the name more than a little off-putting," Reid smiled thinly, obviously amused by some inside joke.

"Huh? What's so funny about it?" Morgan asked.

"Carnation means flesh-like, so if you think about it, they are calling it '_Flesh-like Instant Breakfast'_. Told you. The stuff is _disgusting_," Reid barked out laughter.

"I never considered it before, but it makes sense,_ Carnation_..." Morgan grinned at the younger man.

"Okay, you going to use the bathroom?" Morgan asked Reid after a moment. Reid sighed, obviously content to stay all warm and cozy in bed.

"Okay," Reid sighed, getting up, rummaging in his closet first for fresh sweat pants and a t-shirt and sweater for the day.

Morgan went to the kitchen to make their breakfasts.

* * *

"Good morning, my heavenly wonder," Garcia said to Morgan as he entered the bullpen. She was holding a large file folder full of papers.

"Stuff for Reid?" Morgan guessed, looking at the impressive collection. Garcia grinned.

"Every positive survival story I could find, stats on different drugs for the same cancer, everything positive I could find..."

"I hope you weren't here all night," Morgan said, smiling at the tech. She grinned back, but didn't respond. She handed Morgan a bag, and inside was a small collection of books.

"What're _these_?" Morgan asked, taking the bag.

"Everything inspirational I could find at the bookstore._ Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cancer Book: 101 stories of Courage, Support and Love_, uh... a few others. One looked particular suited to our stroppy little prodigy. It's called _Damn the Statistics, I have a life to live_, and it looked well... I think it'll make Reid grin. Another one is called _Surviving Terminal Cancer_, a bunch of others. Did checks first to see, and they all got 5 stars on Amazon dot com," Garcia stopped talking and looked over at Morgan, grinning again.

"I think... I think this is _really_ going to help him. Get his mood up."

"Yeah. I hope so. _Our little guy_." Her voice was tender. "Um, also, I did manage to talk to an old friend last night about the, you know..._other_ potential anti-emetic and she might be able to hook us up, but she wanted to know if Reid has ever smoked up before, just in case he has a bad reaction. Some people _panic _and..."

"Are you guys discussing marijuana in a federal building?" the voice was sudden, artificially stern and low.

"Jesus, Hotch!" Morgan said, whirling, grinning at his S.A.C. Hotch smiled back slightly.

"I realize you're discussing Reid and that Reid_ is_ important, but we have a case to discuss in..." Hotch glanced at his watch, "ten minutes, so you guys might want to wrap it up."

"Yes, sir," Garcia said, sounding a little nervous. Her cheeks were flushed.

She handed the file to Morgan then, and hurried off back to her little cave of computers and toys. Morgan watched her rush off and grinned, shaking his head.

* * *

The day was tiring, but at least they hadn't had to take the jet anywhere. There was an UnSub in Virginia and the local PD wanted their help. Which meant that Morgan, at 9:00 pm, drove over to Reid's and parked.

He had his own key but he knew that, for the most part, Reid liked it when he rang the bell. So he did. The door was opened by a petite woman with blond hair and a tired, but kind, face. She looked to be about 35, but it was hard to tell. He'd forgotten about the nurse, and that she started tonight.

"Hi, um... my name is Derek Morgan. I am a friend of Reid's?" Morgan said by way of introduction.

"Of course, Dr. Reid has told me a lot about you," the woman said warmly, letting Morgan into the apartment. "Doctor" Reid was sitting on the sofa, feet propped on an ottoman and he looked absolutely miserable. There was an IV stand next to the couch and he had an IV in his hand. His eyes were very shiny, very glazed. He put a finger in the book he was reading to mark his place and looked up.

"Hey,_ Morgan_. It was either the intravenous line or back to the hospital," Reid said, and his voice was slurred.

"Well, an IV at home is not so bad, Kid," Morgan coaxed gently, coming over to his friend and sitting next to him. Reid shrugged.

"I could have just drunk more water..."

"Dr. Reid, you were vomiting all day," the nurse said patiently.

"I'm sorry," Morgan said tiredly, glancing over at the woman, not envying the position she was in. "I didn't get your name before?"

"Stacy. Stacy Madigan. Stacy is fine though."

Morgan nodded and smiled warmly at her. "And _Reid_, here, did he ask you to call him _Doctor_?" Morgan said, giving Reid a warning glance.

"He..._well_..." the woman trailed. Finally shrugged.

"You can call him _Reid_," Morgan informed the nurse, before looking back at his friend. "Can't she, Kid?"

Reid shrugged and turned back to his book. He was pale, nauseated, he had an IV in his hand which burned and itched; there was a stranger in his house he didn't want and she'd given him more painkillers and he felt stoned and unreal and ticked off and like crying_. Screw_ Morgan. Morgan didn't _get it _and hadn't been tricked in to having a stranger live in his house and babysit him. Morgan's life wasn't falling apart.

"Sure, _fine_." Reid finally said snappily, continuing to speed read.

"Kid, Garcia did some research, put together a bunch of information for you to read, and bought you a bunch of books..." Morgan handed Reid the books and file. Reid took the presents with a nod of the head, his eyes somehow dead-looking and dejected. Morgan smiled brightly, acting happier than he felt.

"Tell Garcia _thanks_," Reid said tiredly after a long, spacey moment.

Morgan nodded. "I am going to go get some coffee. Would you like some, Stacy?"

"Um...sure. That would be great." The woman smiled warmly at Morgan.

"I'll show you where he keeps his coffee and boost drinks and all the stuff, so you can make yourself coffee without waking him..."

"Okay," Stacy said, getting the message. Morgan wanted to talk to her alone, obviously. She trailed him into the kitchen and Morgan opened up the fridge, showing her the collection of boost drinks, before lowering his voice. Morgan filled the coffee pot and poured it into the machine, adding a large table spoon of ground coffee for each cup and turned the machine on.

"He...he usually is a _lot_ less antagonistic. He's just scared, and he thought he was getting an NG tube if he got a nurse. He's usually a really...well..._sweet_ guy," Morgan said quickly, keeping his voice down.

"It's okay, um... _Agent Morgan_? I _know _he's scared. He's terrified, and he feels rotten." She smiled back at him, clearly touched that he had cared enough to try and explain Reid's current behaviour.

"Morgan is fine, you don't have to call me_ Agent_ Morgan," Morgan said. He then pitched his voice a little higher. "And so, the coffee is _here_, and the coffee filters..." Morgan said, showing her where the supplies were stashed.

"You guys can stop pretending," Reid called bitterly from the living room. "I know you're talking about me!"

"Not _everything_ is about you, Kid," Morgan called back pleasantly, refusing to let Reid's dark mood sour his own. "Look at the stuff Garcia got you, and try to imagine her picking_ those_ out for you when you just know she wanted to head off to the Manga section or something..."

Reid was silent for a moment, and then Morgan heard a low laugh, almost a chuckle. Even Reid's nurse, Stacy, smiled.

"The thing with Reid is that he is terrified, he is stubborn and he wanted an NG tube. He feels betrayed by his doc, and you are now a symbol of that betrayal, but he also has an IQ of 187... If he hasn't already told you that... and he'll come around. If you're willing to listen to him ramble about, well, just about anything, you two will very quickly get along."

The nurse smiled and nodded. "Agent...I mean,_ Morgan_; it's okay. _Seriously_. I used to work in paediatrics and the kids acted very similarly, especially the 10-13 year old age group or so. Doc... I mean Reid is just a bit older than they are, but that doesn't mean much. He told me he still hasn't told his mother, and when I asked why, he clammed up. So it didn't take a genius, excuse the pun, to figure out he's fighting this illness without the support of his family..."

Morgan nodded, thought about what Stacy had just said.

"We're family, though."

"Excuse me?"

"Me, Garcia, Hotch... the whole team. We might not be related by blood, but we're his family in every way that matters. Reid doesn't want to tell his mother because she is an institutionalized paranoid schizophrenic, and his father abandoned him when he was ten years old... I figured I should warn you now so you don't act shocked when or_ if_ he tells you. She is incapable of making medical decisions for him, so he doesn't have her listed as next of kin, and he doesn't want to worry her. As for his father, he doesn't talk to the man."

The nurse nodded, eyes full of sympathy. "That explains a little more," she said gently.

"You guys are taking waaaay too long to just be looking at boost and coffee..." Reid called from the living room.

Morgan glanced at Reid's nurse and shook his head, smiling slightly.

"Look, I'll give you my card. Any behaviour outside the realm of normal brain-cancer stuff, any questions... you can reach me at this number..."

"Thanks," Stacy said graciously and took the card, slipping it into her jeans pocket. That was another thing... Morgan had heard the word "nurse" and had expected her to be wearing the full uniform, but she was dressed in blue jeans and a loose fitting, mauve sweater.

Morgan pulled two mugs out of the cabinet and filled them with coffee.

"_Milk_?" Morgan asked, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Black is fine," Stacy said, taking the proffered coffee gratefully. They walked back into the living room and Morgan spotted medical supplies in a blue zippered parcel sitting on Reid's chair. It was open. There were hypodermic needles still in their original packaging, more IV bags of saline solution, tubing, needles, gloves, a stethoscope, what looked like a blood pressure cuff and an oximeter, among other devices. Little bottles of drugs. Some of the stuff Morgan couldn't figure out.

"I _know_," Reid groused, watching Morgan look at the medical supplies. "She could probably operate on me here."

"_So_," Morgan said, looking over at his friend. "You read those books from Garcia yet?"

"_One_ of them...almost." Reid said, eyes heavy-lidded. He picked up the _Chicken Soup for the Soul_ book about Cancer and shook it slightly. Stacy stared at the sick, young man and blinked.

"Are you two kidding?"

"What, boy-genius didn't tell you. In addition to having a very impressive IQ of 187, he can also speed-read 20,000 words a minute," Morgan said. Reid nodded.

"You're joking... that's something like...300 words a _second_?" Stacy said in astonishment.

"Actually, it is 333.3 continuing words a second," Reid corrected her, eyes drug-glazed and dull.

"_Reid_..." Morgan warned the drugged man gently. "Don't be a smart-ass,"

"I'm _not_. Just being honest. But really, _anyone_ can learn to speed-read at that speed, if they learn to chunk and there are also some techniques to learn, too, which can help speed up the process. I wouldn't recommend learning to speed read poetry or fiction you want to savour, not at first at any rate, as reading comprehension tends to fall, but speed-reading is_ great_ for non-fiction and studying..."

"I'd be really interested in learning some of those speed-reading techniques," Stacy said pleasantly, glancing over at Morgan, who smiled at her encouragingly.

"I...I might be able to help you with that," Reid said, sounding friendlier than he had all evening. Stacy smiled back at the young man gently and nodded enthusiastically.

"Although on these pain killers I am sure both my reading comprehension and speed have decreased, but I could still teach you the basics," Reid muttered pensively.

"That would still be really great... I eventually want to go back to school and get my medical degree, become a doctor."

"Really?" Reid said, perking up.

"You have three doctorates, and you're still so _young_..." Stacy said with admiration.

"I have my doctorates in Mathematics, Engineering and Chemistry, though, so I am not a medical doctor... you can study _here_, if you want. Kill two birds with one stone?"

"Reid...um, my job_ here_ is to watch you. Not study."

"You can study as well. I _certainly _won't mind, and it would actually make me feel like less of a god-damn_ burden_," Reid said groggily. Stacy and Morgan exchanged knowing glances. Morgan knew Spencer Reid would never have admitted that, much less to a relative stranger, if he wasn't high on medication, but he had, and they both knew that's how he felt having a nurse: like a_ burden_.

"With your intellect, you should know having a nurse is just..._smart_, and don't worry, the insurance pays me well," Stacy said, trying to put Reid's mind at ease.

Reid nodded. His eyes were nearly closed.

"Anyway, I just wanted to drop off the stuff," Morgan interrupted before Reid could lapse into a drug-induced stupor. Reid nodded distantly and mumbled what could have passed as another "Thank you."

Stacy led him to the door.

"Thank you for coming over, Morgan. I enjoyed meeting you."

"Remember, call any time. Especially if gets...upset. Or you feel overwhelmed. Even when I am out of the city on a case, our computer tech, Penelope Garcia, is usually here and she has a good rapport with Reid..."

"Okay. Thanks...again. For everything." She glanced back over at the now-sleeping man. "You know, I think, personally, he'll beat this. What he has, as far as cancer goes, is very serious, but he is very determined. In my experience the ones that beat the so-called terminal cases have that same never-say-die personality," her voice was soft.

"You should tell Reid that when he wakes up," Morgan said. "I think he needs to hear that, and hearing that from a medical professional will probably mean more than just hearing it from friends who, he knows, might not be able to remain as objective."

"I will...tell him, I mean," Stacy said with a soft, sad smile. Morgan opened the door, wishing the woman good luck, and walked out into the cool, tar-black night.

* * *

Okay, end of chapter nine. Have to read this for obvious, glaring errors and then spell-check, but I wanted to update. I really hope there aren't any dumb errors, I read through it twice and nothing stood out, but it's possible. If there are...still...sorry! **Please review**, and remember, Reid is a little fighter! This is ultimately a life-affirming story, if not an angst-filled one. -Lexikal


	10. Chapter 10: Telepathic Fungus

Title: The Blue Boy (Chapter Ten)

Author: Lexikal

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: Spencer Reid is starting to develop what looks like serious depression. But is he really depressed, or is there something else going on?

Rating: T

Author's Note: I started this fic years ago. I had every intention of finishing it, but got sick while writing it and at the same time, my computer went on the fritz. It was a popular story, though, so I think I might try and finish it. Sorry for the crazily long delay in this thing. As a general rule when reading my work, if "delays" drive you nuts, only read my short stories or the ones which are already complete. I agree with a recent poster, that this story can be life-affirming, and I know more about how to regain health now, so I might use this story as a platform to do just that.

* * *

24 hours later

Reid had propped himself up in front of his laptop and was doing research on cancer. On a doctor named Tullio Simoncini from Rome who believed all cancer was the body's natural defense to excessive fungal spread of a mycellial fungus called candida albicans which normally lived in the digestive tract but which could get out of hand given the right conditions (acidic diet, environmental toxins, dehydration, genetic predisposition). He claimed that utilizing an alkaline diet to alkalize the PH of the cellular fluid was the way to health, and one of his most simple recommendations was to consume water containing sodium bicarbonate. In other words? Baking soda.

Reid got up. Slumped his way to the kitchen and pulled the little orange box of Arm & Hammer out of the cupboard. This stuff contained aluminum traces. He'd ask Morgan to pick him up some of the non-aluminum stuff tomorrow. The page he was on now said that there was a brand called "Bob's Red Mill" which made non-aluminum baking soda, and Reid was pretty sure he'd seen it at Wholefoods. The young genius spooned a tablespoon of baking powder into his glass of purified water (he was trying to avoid fluoride from the tap water), stirred it. Drank it down.

He didn't puke it up, which was something. And possibly he was having a placebo reaction, but a half an hour later, when he went to pee, his urine seemed a little less acidic.

Reid did some more research and two hours later he was on a sight for an auto-immune bladder condition called Interstitial Cystitis, reading everything he could about "baking soda therapy". Then he switched to reading about the alkaline diet and the anti-candida diet. Every single alternate website Reid went to told him the same thing: processed carbs and sugars, in all its forms, were to be avoided, as well as nitrates (such as those found in processed meats), antibiotics (both prescription and those used in animal-based food production such as the egg industry) and all artificial sweeteners (aspartame being at the top of the list of neurotoxins). Reid went to his room, pulled out a pad of foolscap and a pen and came back. Took rapid notes. The chemo had made his brain fuzzy, and he wanted to remember the important bits.

Stacy was sitting on the sofa, studying. She looked over at him time from time, still a little unsure of how to act around him.

"This is interesting research. This possible link between the mycellial fungal form of Candida albicans and cancer. Cancer as the body's natural defense. Have you looked into this?" Reid said, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop.

Stacy shook her head.

"No, I haven't."

"I am going to ditch all the processed sugars and start drinking alkaline water. Right now the Arm & Hammer, and tomorrow, alkalinized with non-aluminum sodium bicarbonate. They sell some at Wholefoods, I saw it there 213 days ago when I was looking for baking supplies to make chocolate chip cookies with Garcia. I am also interested in a supplement called Cell Food. It was designed by a man named Dr. Everett L. Storey in the 40s. Storey was a genius who helped to develop the hydrogen bomb," Reid said, voice slurring a little with fatigue. Stacy watched him. Smiled at him. Morgan had told her Reid was prone to rambling speeches like this. What she found most encouraging was that he had life in his eyes now, even if his hair was gone and his cheekbones were hard enough to cut flesh on.

His eyes were dancing with hope and it was impossible not to smile at that.

"I am working on an alkaline, no sugar diet for myself. I am going to have to throw away all the boost. There is a local food delivery service. They will bring me organic eggs from chickens that haven't received antibiotics," Reid was making rapid notes. Stacy noticed that his hand was shaking a bit. From adrenaline? Fatigue? Excitement? All three.

"I want to get my calories up," Reid confirmed. "But not by ingesting processed sugars. Do you know anyone who can use the boost meal replacements?"

"I am sure I could find a use for them," Stacy said. She put down her medical text, came over to Reid and sat beside him on the couch he was on. It was an old battered thing that Morgan had apparently hauled over from a thrift store a week or so ago, and out of place with Reid's decor, but much more comfortable than Reid's pre-cancer sofa. Reid had taken to falling asleep on the couch, IV imbedded in his hand, eyes glazed over from internet research or paging through xeroxed medical studies.

"Oh yes, Storey," Reid said, getting back on track. "He helped develop the hydrogen bomb, but then, later... began to sick. As did many of his colleagues. Here, let me read," Reid said bluntly, and before waiting for a response from his nurse, was dictating to her what was in front of him on his laptop screen.

"But after the war, Storey and many of his colleagues discovered a more personal crisis: they were dying of radiation poisoning, a result of their exposure while witnessing bomb tests. It was then that Storey developed the conceptual blueprint for CELLFOOD. He theorized that the same water-splitting technology that produced a bomb could be made to heal a human life. By utilizing hydrogen's non-radioactive isotope, deuterium, and a full blend of required trace minerals, enzymes and amino acids, he would create a solution, an 'electromagnetic equation' that could release vital oxygen and hydrogen into his blood, continues on reverse stream, remove toxic radiation, rebuild his systems, and return him to health. Storey stated:

"It is time for the general acceptance of the concept that even in some terminal cases, our bodies can, given essential building blocks, repair and reconstitute every living cell within a span of 11 months."

It worked and the world was presented with CELLFOOD. Benefiting from its healing effects, Everett Storey lived into his late 70's," Reid stopped and looked over. He was grinning. "I have been looking at the tests on this product. USP challenge test. :D50 acute oral toxicity safety study and, and... dark field microscopy report. Free radical analytical studies. The list goes on and on."

Stacy smiled at him.

"Reid... there are lots of products that are supposed to help-"

"I'm trying this," Reid said resolute. "And the alkaline diet. The sodium bicarbonate water. I also want some matcha green tea powder and spirulina powder. And coconut milk. Coconut oil for the caprylic acid and the high omega 3 counts. Also, also..." Reid trailed. His words were slipping and sliding over each other. He was almost manic with excitement, with hope.

""Do you know what Hippocrates said? The founding father of modern medicine?"

Stacy shook her head. She had no idea what Reid would blurt out, but couldn't stop smiling at him, at his enthusiasm, his passion for life.

"He said: 'let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food.' Pretty amazing statement. Even stranger, the average medical doctor in the west has fewer than 12 hours of education when it comes to nutrition and the benefits of nutrition on the human body. Weird, right?"

Stacy just nodded.

"Cell food. Non-aluminum baking soda. Avocados. Cold pressed coconut oil. Low-sugar miso soup base. Kimchi for the probiotics. Raw sauerkraut for the probiotics. Hmmm... unsweetened carob. Extra virgin olive oil. Wild caught salmon. I will also need urine PH test strips from the health food store. Ideal human PH is between 7.35 and 7.45, but cancer sufferers universally are much more acidic, and testing one's urine is apparently an easy way to judge if you are becoming more alkaline overall, with diet changes. Also, I want organic milk kefir for the probiotics. And... and I will need milk kefir grains, to make my own kefir. Cheaper. Probiotics, to restock good bacteria to the bowels." Reid was speeding, not really speaking to his nurse, just speaking. He clicked on a few keys. "Here, 45 minutes away. Someone is selling milk kefir grains for 2 dollars a tablespoon. I will take 8 tablespoons and drink a liter of kefir a day, that should be sufficient..."

"I am glad you are so excited," Stacy said, eyeing him. She really was. But at what cost? One thing was for certain, he was going to sleep like the dead tonight. No pun intended.

"Very interesting research here on phenolated iodine, a quarter cup a day apparently helps with brain fog due to candida albican die off and..." Reid murmured these words three minutes later and stopped talking, attention drawn to whatever article his eyes were leaping across. Then he fell silent, pulled back into the storm of his own curiosity and hope. 30 minutes later Stacy looked up to find him slumped over and sleeping, mouth hanging open, drool slowly pooling down the side of his face and onto the collar of his white t-shirt. His cheeks were flushed, brow sweaty, skin a bit pallid. He'd worn himself out. Stacy went over to him, gently moved his laptop so it wouldn't fall from his lap and crash on the floor, and looked over his notes. They were shaky, messy and written in a hurry, but full of life and fervor. She was reminded of the feverish research and study of any great genius, or anyone facing imminent death who refuses to give up. Crises really did tend to bring out tenacity in people.

And if anyone had a shot beating this disease, Reid did.

Reid, suddenly, was a young boy again. Maybe 8, maybe 10 years old. Not pubescent, but not so tiny as to be completely unable to understand reality and the nature of death. He was wearing his yellow pajamas, the one-piece ones with the white zipper from the throat all the way down to the crotch, the padded feet, the fabric soft and almost furry, like the body of a Jim Henson muppet, the cuffs around the wrists and ankles white elastic material. "Your good dream" pajamas. His mother had purchased them for him when he had suffered his first existential night terror regarding death and the eventual certainty of his own demise. He had known about death and dying much earlier, of course, from the earliest days of his childhood. His mother had never been one to shelter him from any inconvenient or hard truths in life. But intellectual understanding wasn't the same thing as emotional, existential terror.

The concept of death opened up a sidewise 8 of obsessive rumination in his head, an infinity symbol of fear. He became, for a time, scared of going to sleep, lest his heart stop beating in his sleep. The unknown was darkness, and death was darkness, the lack of consciousness, of self-awareness and intellect and identity. All of this had terrified him to the bone. Deeper than the bone, really. And the nightmares had stared, so Diana Reid had purchased her little genius child a pair of fuzzy yellow pajamas more suitable for someone half his age and finagled a fisher price cassette recorder, used, at a yard sale for 2 dollars and 50 cents. At Radio Shack she had purchased little Spencer a set of tapes, so if he woke up in the middle of the night with existential questions, with racing thoughts, he could talk into his tape recorder. In this way, the tapes would become a record of his fear and his progress to come to terms with his own physical mortality (Diana wasn't certain about non-local consciousness, and, being agnostic, told Spencer there was no way to really know about such things one way or the other). She had also purchased the young prodigy a collection of cassettes, everything from Michael Jackson to Prokofiev and back to the childish realm of Raffi. For the long, lonely nights of the soul when his mind raced and fear griped him. Because really, the fear of dying as a fear that could not be readily sorted out. Not if what you feared wasn't pain or suffering, but the unknown and possible endless lights out of consciousness which death seemed to imply. The eternal shadow. Thoughts of death leaped to thoughts of fate, free will, time, possible lack of time, overlap of dimensions... it just didn't stop. Metaphysics had blurred with distant religious teachings, with scientific discussions of transhumanism, with biological explanations for death. His mind twirled and swirled and he felt like he must be going mad, like his mother (like mother, like son, and oh boy! He could hear the schoolyard taunts now). The cassette tapes had helped some. The music. On the worst nights, when he felt like he was going mad (did everyone experience this profound existential horror? The kids at his school didn't seem to be so pallid and pensive, with dark circles under their eyes and some of them were one and a half times his age or more) he would listen to Prokofiev's Dance of the Knights and he could tell from the music that somewhere along the long march of human lives, others had felt like he had. Maybe for different reasons, but the horror and fear and gnawing rat-pain of uncertainty, the sheer torment of repressive benighted existence, so tender and fragile... others had experienced this. He wasn't alone in his fear.

And now he was that yellow boy again, yellow figuratively and literally, clad in his muppet one piece pajamas. He was running through a maze of root-like trees, stretching their tendrils towards a burnt orange sky. What had happened to the sky? The sun was gone, that was for sure. The sun had exploded, he knew this instinctively, but where... where was that hellish orange light coming from? The tendrils swarmed and pulsated in the eerie, eldritch light.

Suddenly he was staring at one of the trees and was sure that it wasn't a tree, but a fungus. Mycellium? A sickly green, and it was talking to him. He followed the waving, pulsing movement of the fungus-strand and felt a horrible vertigo roll through his belly, then his head. The fungus had eyes! And it was glowing an unnatural green like "Slimer" from the Ghostbusters.

"Cancer is a crab," the fungus said to him, and continued to wave in the orange-red night sky.

"A crab?" Little Spencer confirmed. Not out loud. In his mind. And the fungus heard.

"A crab is cancer. It will cut you up with its sharp little claws!"

"You aren't making any sense," Spencer informed the fungus.

"I am a fungus."

"I know that."

"I am a fun guy," the telepathic mycellium said stolidly.

"No, you're not," Spencer informed the dream-fungus. "You're horrible. You are making me sick, aren't you? You are killing me."

"I gave birth to a tumor. It lives in your brain."

"Will you kill me?" Spencer asked. The creature before him seemed honest. Cruel, but honest.

"Yes. No. Nooooo... I don't like oxy-geeeennnnnnnnnnn..."

"You're hard to understand."

"Feed me sugar, or I will die," undulating, telepathic fungus said then, and it almost sounded pitiful.

"I want you to die!"

And then, it began to laugh.

"All cancer is fungus, squared." And it began to laugh harder. Then the laughter turned into a bleating, like a goat. No... sharper than a goat. Like, like an alarm.

And Reid woke up to the sound of his phone ringing. He checked the clock. 11:53 a.m. Stacy had left at 6:30. He knew if he got up and wandered into the kitchen there would be a note wishing him well for the day. She would be back at 7:30. Crazy hours, but good pay. She worked 5 days, then 2 days break. In the daytime, walk in clinics were open in case Reid needed to see a doctor, but didn't need an ambulance. It was the best option. Insurance wouldn't pay for round-the-clock care. He wasn't sick enough.

Not yet.

Reid rubbed at his eyes. He felt foggy headed, not quite present, not quite awake. Half drunk, half high. But suddenly certain. He ran the dream through his head_. All cancer is fungus, squared._

And he smiled.

* * *

chapter end (sorry it's been three years, I will finish this puppy- didn't intend to, but if it is a life-affirming story for anyone, then I suppose it is worth finishing- please review!)


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